After Joy
by clinicduty
Summary: How would House have felt and responded if Cuddy had asked him to stay after the shared kiss at the end of Joy? Here's a possible response. AU. Originally a one-shot, but the muse was generous.
1. Chapter 1

He had to leave. If he stayed a moment longer, he'd do something they might both regret.

_She would definitely regret it._

He bid her a soft good night and turned away from her hooded gaze. He made his way to the door. He felt disoriented and it took him several steps to realize that he wasn't utilizing his cane. His limp was more exaggerated without it but he was feeling no pain.

All he could feel was the wetness on his lips, how they tingled and his mouth watered, and how his groin ached in a way it hadn't in ages. His gut was gnawing with want, of her.

She was beautiful, sexy, a spitfire … and visibly vulnerable.

Which is why he had to leave. Because more than his body was responding to her and that was dangerous territory. It was a bear pit. Or one of those bear traps with giant teeth. If they fell in or it clamped shut on him, or her, or them, it would mean more than exsanguination or a lost limb.

"Stay."

He had barely set the tip of his cane on the floor when she whispered the one, unexpected word. It brought him to a halt. He kept his back to her.

"Cuddy—"

"Please," she cut him off.

It was softer than her first plea and he felt like someone had reached in and wrenched his insides, giving them a good twist in opposite directions like wringing out a wet towel.

"It's a bad idea."

_Possibly the worst in the history of bad ideas._ He wanted her. He wasn't sure it was comfort he wanted to give. Not entirely. It was a part of it but he feared too much of it was tied to the traitorous organ south of his navel.

"I know."

Foolishly thinking that was the end of it, he took another step but she stopped him again. This time she used seven words.

"I don't want to be alone tonight."

Seven was a prime number. It was also the same number of sins declared deadly by a group of pious hypocrites. Lust was amongst those. But he didn't believe in the existence of a god. He believed in science and fact. He believed he was a narcissistic prick whose impulsive, noble intentions of moments ago had the potential to become ignoble at any moment. It's who he was and why he was trying to leave before the rusty parts of his humanity started working again and he was in over his head.

"Call Wilson," he said, hoping to put her off or piss her off. It would be minimal pain compared to what she would feel if he stayed.

"I don't want Wilson."

She was behind him now, close. He could feel the warmth of her. She didn't ask him to turn around. She came around and stood in front of him, blocking his exit and forcing him to look at her. She still looked devastatingly vulnerable but that was misleading. Determination. He saw it. He'd watched more than a few people get steamrolled by it. Including himself. He might be screwed.

"I'm not asking for a commitment," she told him.

"I can't give you what you want," he stated unequivocally. _And she should know that._

"But you can give me what I need."

_Goddamned Jagger._

"I won't give it," he said then and thought she would recoil at the rejection.

She didn't. She just looked at him like she had moments ago. Her eyes searched his for something. It scared the hell out of him when she did that. She saw him clearer than anyone ever had, even Wilson. He hated it, most of the time. It scared her, most of the time. But she wasn't scared right now.

_Damn it._

"Why?"

"You know why."

He refused to believe she'd forgotten how cruel he'd been to her. She'd called him on it not five minutes ago.

"Then why did you come here tonight?"

He wanted to look away from her but he couldn't. He shook his head instead. Just once. Because he wasn't any more sure of his reasons than he was for why he had _negated everything_. He'd just needed to see her. And then he'd needed to kiss her. And now…

"Stay."

"Why?"

He asked the question this time and she had an answer. She always had one. He loved and hated that about her.

"Because you make me feel less alone."

Alone. He understood alone. He hated it but he found comfort in it more than he did people. She didn't like it either but there was no comfort in it for her — at least not tonight. He was afraid of what comfort she wanted. The expectations had him trying to piss her off again.

"If you want company, Wilson's still a better bet. He'll paint your toenails, braid your hair and watch chick flicks."

It didn't piss her off. He hadn't even come close to denting her resolve. He'd amused her instead. He saw a hint of a smirk flirt briefly with the edges of her mouth and a momentary spark of humor in her eyes before somberness overtook it again.

"I'm not a sixteen-year-old looking for a slumber party."

No. She was not a sixteen-year-old. She was a woman. A desirable woman with breasts that he wanted to kiss and caress and suckle, legs that wouldn't quit and he wanted wrapped around him, and an ass that he'd love to fill his hands with. Then there were the other parts of her that he wanted to fill, repeatedly.

If he stayed, he would have to deal with those desires. He didn't want to deal with them. He wanted to act on them, and he didn't think he was being invited to stay so he could fulfill his carnal fantasies. He had a lot of them involving her. Michigan had seared her in his brain.

"What do you want?"

He was an idiot for asking. The question tipped his hand that he might consider her request if he knew what he was getting into. He didn't know if he would or wouldn't. He still didn't know why he'd come but it hadn't been with the expectation to bed her.

He also hadn't expected his question to scare her, but he could see that it had. Her determination wavered. She projected uncertainty but she braved an answer.

"Not to hurt."

Pain. Her words triggered it. Physical. Emotional. Psychological. In him. For her. He wavered and strategist that she was, she took the opening he gave her.

He watched her reach blindly behind her and lock the door and remembered why playing poker with her was dangerous. She had a tell. He knew it. But she knew how to disarm him with alarming ease and unerringly find the one thing that would reach him.

He _was_ screwed but he didn't protest when she took him by the hand and led him through her home. As she shut off the lights along the way, he remembered another thing…

That he loved her.


	2. Chapter 2

For those fans who requested more to this story, my muse decided to supply... Enjoy!

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**Part 2**

He had no idea what he was doing.

He was standing in her bedroom.

She was in the bathroom, dressing for bed.

It was the perfect opportunity for him to make an exit without interference. He could skulk out like the coward he could be and often was. It would hurt her feelings but she'd be over it by morning and might even thank him.

But he lacked the courage to even do that. He wondered if it meant he was twice the coward, or if it was a case of two negatives making a positive.

He was confused and hated it.

Medical puzzles — those he could do. Give him a set of random, seemingly unrelated symptoms and he'd ferret out a diagnosis from his cerebral cortex.

Emotional puzzles — he felt less than worthless when faced with his conflicting emotions and unclear courses of action.

The Cuddy puzzle — that stumped him.

He'd been trying to work it out for years. He knew the pieces fit together, somehow, but he hadn't made the connections. Employer and employee was the most readily identifiable fit and yet it was never quite perfect. And the picture that might help him assemble more was rarely in focus for long. One or the other of them always blurred it. Which told him _neither of them_ knew what they were doing.

He stared at the bathroom door and conjured the image of a blank whiteboard. In his mind, he had a marker in hand, ready to jot down logical reasons for him to stay. But there were none. The only reason he had was neither logical or rational but it did have the virtue of being true.

He hadn't intend to "write" it out, but there it was in bold red on the imaginary board, staring back at him.

_Love._

Beneath that, he consciously added another word — _respect_ — and immediately thought to cross it off.

Most of the time he was _barely_ respectful. Lately he had not been respectful at all. But he did respect her more than his outward actions and words would indicate. Or at least he thought he did.

More confusion. He wanted to beat his head against the wall. Or take a few more Vicodin.

The leather of his jacket creaked when he reached a hand into his pocket and ran his fingers over the smooth plastic of the prescription bottle. He didn't extract it, just took comfort in its presence and pondered the bigger, most confusing puzzle of the night.

_Why would she want him here?_

He had been particularly horrible to her today and she was grieving a loss he couldn't quite comprehend. He didn't understand why she would find comfort in his presence. She shouldn't have even let him into her home by his account. But she had and she didn't want him to go.

_What did she want from him?_

He did not know what he had to give her beyond sex. They had history — hot history — so he knew he could scratch that itch for her. But she didn't need an itch scratched. She needed more and he wasn't a comforter or talk-about-your-feelings type of guy. He had a vague recollection of doing those things in the past but the methodology had been lost in the haze of Vicodin. He couldn't even remember how it felt to just hold a woman.

Hookers didn't want that and he didn't want it with them. He hadn't wanted it with Stacy the last go-round. They'd had sex. They'd kissed. He'd lied most of the time and she'd gone home to her newly crippled husband at night. It had been a game and cheapened any possible meaning it might have had to him in the long term.

But Cuddy was not a game.

Where Stacy was domesticated and malleable, Cuddy was a committed wild cat. She would play with him. She would match wits, cross verbal swords, wear tight skirts and low-cut blouses to drive him mad, and dig in.

Kissing her had reminded him what a real kiss felt like. He had not lied to get it. He had not schemed. She had looked like she needed a kiss, so he'd kissed her. And she'd kissed him back, with an anguished passion that fired his own.

Her reaction had scared the hell out of him. He had scared the hell out of himself. He wanted her, and sex was only part of the equation. It wasn't even the biggest part. That went back to the first word.

He wrote _sex_ word on his mental whiteboard. He didn't put it under the column with his motivations for staying. He put it under reasons she might want him to stay, but suspected that was an insult to her.

She was not him. She would not use him for that, because he couldn't do it to her. Just like he couldn't leave even though he believed it was in everyone's best interest that he do so.

He drew a line through _sex_ and wrote something else in its place: _Lovemaking_.

There was a difference and that would be what she wanted if it was on the table.

Beneath that, he wrote another word that refined the previous: _Intimacy_.

_Physical_ … question mark. _Emotional_ … check mark.

Could he give her either of those things? Especially the latter?

Another question mark, written large at the bottom of the board.

He frowned and pulled the Vicodin from his pocket. He turned the amber container slowly in his fingers, taking in the texture of the paper label and then the plastic again.

Tactile sensation. _And her._

He trembled at the thought of it. The mental whiteboard dissolved and he looked at the bathroom door. She was on the other side, in some state of undress. He wanted to open that door and kiss her again.

A real kiss with a real woman. Not a hooker who he refused to kiss. Not some bimbette he picked up for the night to get off with. Not a married ex who left him a cripple. But Cuddy. That gorgeous creature who drove him crazy day and night. Who he'd had the distinct pleasure of making come more than a few times, years ago. Who he loved in secret and denial. Whose heart was broken and seeking solace in him.

The courage to leave. He found it as he considered the Pandora's box that emotional indulgence would open. Kissing and touching her, even just holding her would make him feel things best left unfelt.

He was not the man he'd been all those years ago. He hadn't been that man in a long time. It was _him _that she would want, not the misanthrope he'd become, with a bad leg and twenty-Vicodin-a-day habit. She deserved better than what he had to offer, no matter what she wanted from him.

He tucked the Vicodin back in his pocket and snatched up his cane with the intent of leaving. But he stopped when the bathroom door opened in front of him.

She stood there, darkness behind her as she shut off the light. She was wearing a satin robe, a soft white that made him think of first-fallen snow. It flowed about her, hinting at her curves beneath.

The word _tantalizing_ came to mind, along with _achingly beautiful_. Her sorrow was an exquisite shroud about her. It took nothing away from her but revealed her fragility. She never let anyone see that.

But he was seeing and the words _royal bastard_ when he saw her grief deepen at realizing he'd been about to leave.

That broke him. The rust began to crack and fall away.

Some part of him deep inside aching, he set his cane back down and limped to her. Her blue eyes searched his as they had earlier and he didn't try to hide that he was conflicted and confused and damned near scared out of his mind.

She needed to know what he felt. Her desire for him to stay needed to be rooted in the reality of who he was now and not a romantic ideal culled from days long past. She needed to know that he might bolt at any minute simply because he couldn't cope with the tangle of thoughts and feeling and physical want of her.

He was screwed up. He loathed himself. His body was broken. He was an addict. He was emotionally deficient and a slave to carnality.

He half-hoped she would throw him out on his ass. He deserved it for thinking about his dick, in any context, while she struggled with her loss. She would be saving him from himself — and her from him — if she did.

But she didn't throw him out. She didn't say a word. She just reached up and touched him and looked at him as if she knew every secret he possessed.

He felt stripped bare and wanted to limp away as fast as possible. But he couldn't move. Her touch had rendered him immobile. He could only tremble as she gently skimmed her fingers through his stubble.

He saw that same alluring vulnerability of earlier. He saw gratitude and the mirror of his fears. He saw understanding and acceptance. He saw tender affection.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

"It's okay if you want to go—"

He cut her off with a little shake of his head then moved in and kissed her again, softer than before.

He knew what he was doing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

She didn't shy away from him, or his kiss. She stepped closer. Her hands touched his midriff then eased around him and up his back. She let out a soft sound that communicated … something.

He didn't stop to think about what. He was too focused on the feel of her as she pressed her body to his.

It wasn't sexual. It wasn't quite platonic. It was somehow familiar but also new. He liked the warmth of her and was intensely aware of exactly how much smaller than him she was. She was so vibrant and, at times, formidable that he sometimes forgot that. And that beneath that fire and armor, she was delicate, too.

She felt that way in his arms. He had wrapped them around her as they continued to kiss. He felt like he was sinking slowly into warm honey as their lips melded with what he thought was affection. He hoped it was and that he did, surprised him. So did the sudden saltiness.

_Tears. _

She pressed closer. He firmed his embrace but eased a hand up to cradle the back of her head. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip as her hands curled tightly into the material of his shirt, beneath his jacket.

_Anguish. _

He could feel it from her. He wanted to make it better but didn't know how. He didn't know what she needed. His instinct was to pick her up and lay her on the bed and make her feel good. But he was afraid that was the wrong thing to do. He didn't want to hurt her. He was afraid he would hurt her anyway. He was too good at screwing things up to trust his instincts.

So he trusted hers. He let her show him what she wanted.

He gave her every kiss she sought. They were endless. Soft and fervent. Sweet and salty.

When she began pushing his jacket from his shoulders, he didn't stop her. When she unbuttoned his shirt, he let her. When she pushed up his t-shirt and sought out his skin he felt the corroded parts of his humanity shudder powerfully.

It should have frightened him. It did, a little. But mostly he felt need. It was the perfect reflection of what he sensed from her when she finally released his mouth and looked up at him.

Tears had left trails on her skin. Fascinated and moved, he touched them, fingertips just grazing the dampness that lingered.

She trembled against him then reached for his hands. He let her take them and his heart skipped a beat when she brought them to the sash on her robe.

He searched her gaze. He needed to know if she was asking for what he wanted to give. He thought maybe he needed to give it now but he wasn't sure. These feelings were not ones he remembered. He had never been with a woman like this. He didn't get close enough for this.

But he was close now and he didn't want to be pushed away. He wanted closer and was surprised at himself once more, and at her willingness to let him close.

He felt reassured when she caressed his hands then slid her palms and fingers to his wrist then up along his forearms.

_Encouragement._

He looked down as he released the knot in the sash. His breath caught as the fabric fluidly parted to reveal that she wore nothing beneath. His fears of doing the wrong thing eased.

She wanted this. He didn't know when she made the decision, but it had been before this moment. He didn't know what to make of that or of her but he was grateful, even if she changed her mind at some point.

His fingers ached to touch her but couldn't seem to move. He was mesmerized at the sight.

Even though he couldn't see all of her, he saw enough to give him the erection of a lifetime. His jeans had grown incredibly uncomfortable within seconds and he knew things were going to get worse when her hands touched the lapels of the robe.

She guided the material from her shoulders as she had his jacket and shirt. It shimmered in the lamplight as it slid perfectly along her arms and fluttered past her hands to pool at her feet.

He could barely breathe. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. The attractive fullness of her youth had transformed over the years into womanly elegance and smoldering sensuality. She was the living, breathing reality of his fantasies. She surpassed them and he was astounded that he was even looking at her.

He met her gaze and saw that tears had welled. More than her body was bare. And that had him touching her.

He laid his hands on her waist and urged her back to him. She came but helped him strip his t-shirt off before she pressed her body to his. Their breaths hitched at the contact.

Her nipples scored his chest. Her hands found his back again. Her lips touched his neck. She lingered and nuzzled.

He skimmed his fingers the length of her spine and tangled his other hand in her hair. He guided her back and melded his mouth to hers. He didn't restrain his want of her. He let her feel it and trembled deep inside when she let him feel her own.

He did not relinquish their connection when he bent and scooped her up in his arms. Her hand touched his cheek then cupped the back of his head. She touched her tongue to his and he kissed her deeper. He tasted her and remembered her.

He turned slowly and laid her out on her bed. He grazed his mouth along her cheek. He found the hollow of her throat and nuzzled and kissed. He framed her breasts with his hands before wrapping his lips around her nipples, first one then the other. He swirled his tongue around the hard buds. She arched and grasped his head. Her legs drew up. Her feet came to rest on his hips. He smelled her and abandoned her breasts, kissed his way down to her sex. He looked at her a moment then parted her. He tasted her again, lapping and sucking and driving his tongue inside her.

She gasped and moaned and rolled her hips. Her responsiveness was an aphrodisiac. He was afraid she might regret it in the morning but not afraid enough to stop and ask if she was certain. He wanted this as much as she did. And not because his dick was threatening to punch its way through his jeans. It was more than that.

_This is more. _

He ignored his need and concentrated on hers. He lost himself in the sheer power of her sexuality, of her trust and the power she was giving him.

He devoured her slowly, methodically, until he had her crying out. Her legs drew higher and he delved his fingers into her and searched out _that_ spot. He thrilled that he remembered where it was. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he stroked her to yet another orgasm. Then another.

Then she was sitting up and reaching for his face. She kissed him in a way he hadn't been kissed in what seemed like forever. Tender and loving and hungry. She tasted herself on him. He shuddered when she reached down and cupped his erection through his jeans. She ran the heel of her hand along the ridge of him and moaned softly into him.

He groaned and tried to maintain their kiss even though he could barely breathe. He helped her when she reached for his belt. They blindingly unbuckled it together. She found the button and freed it. He drew down his zipper. She pushed the denim from his hips. He pushed at the softer fabric of his briefs until his erection sprang free. Her fingers curled around him and he wrenched his mouth from hers. Unmistakeable sounds of pleasure and desire erupted from them both.

He buried his face in her neck and gripped her hips. He drew her to the very edge of the bed. He wanted inside her. But she eased back from him and he let her go. He watched her stretch out and splay her legs in invitation.

He shed the rest of his clothing and went to her. Her blue eyes held his as he settled into the cradle of her body. The intimacy of that, combined with the feel of her threatened to make him an embarrassing statistic.

And that made him remember he didn't have a condom. When he was younger he carried them. He didn't any more and would have been embarrassed by the fact if he weren't in the one place in the world he wanted to be.

He started to ask her but the words died in his throat when she reached between them and took him in hand. He held his breath as she guided him to where she clearly wanted him.

He didn't question it. He just eased inside her and felt dizzy at feeling her around him.

He looked into her eyes and saw love, unfettered and desirous. He saw the woman she hid from the world and her grief. She was breathtakingly beautiful, even in sorrow. She was everything he wanted and needed.

The realization of the latter sent a shudder through him. He needed her. He had always needed her. That she needed him now was almost more than he could handle. But he did.

He bowed and kissed her tenderly and moved in her, determined to give her anything she wanted and needed. Even if only for a night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

She watched him sleep.

Sitting akimbo at the end of the bed, she felt a sense of wonder and contentment. They were the last things she'd expected to feel this night and she knew they would fade the longer she thought about the catalyst for what they'd just shared.

He had surprised her tonight. First showing up at her door, then kissing her and awakening a need in her. _And in him, too_, she thought.

He didn't make himself vulnerable often but when he did…

She could have thrown him out. After everything that'd happened during the day, she would have certainly been justified in doing so. She suspected, from the things he'd said after she'd asked him to stay, that he'd wanted her to. He'd almost left while she'd been in the bathroom, and a big part of her had expected him to be gone when she'd opened the door. She'd hoped not but she knew him well enough to know he might run from the emotions they were both feeling.

He'd been so confused about himself and her, and what he should do. He couldn't hide it and hadn't tried. Ironically, his reticence had cemented her want of him and what she believed she could find with him. It had given her the strength to take the lead and he'd followed.

When she'd asked him to stay, she hadn't been entirely sure what she'd wanted other than to not be alone and feel the pain of loss. She'd been honest with him in that. He'd been terrified, but the mention of pain had overridden his fear. He understood pain, of all sorts. He'd seen hers.

It wasn't until she'd been in her bathroom and found herself slipping on her robe and nothing else that she knew what she wanted with him. She just hadn't known if he would be there when she came out, or if he was, if he'd be able to overcome the jumble of their feelings enough to be with her the way she wanted.

But he had been everything she'd needed and it touched her that he'd seem to find a solace of his own in her. He was so often angry and bitter, almost always abrasive. If he'd found even a moment's reprieve from what fueled those things while he'd been with her then she was happy for him. He deserved more and better than the hand life had dealt him.

She grieved the things he'd lost over the years and the changes in him and desperately wished she understood why she felt the way she did about him. He gave her crap constantly and was sometimes cruel, but she still put up with him.

Michigan had bonded them somehow, far deeper than she would have expected from a brief friendship and one night of bone-melting passion. She suspected it was the same for him and that he was just as confused by it. And by how things had developed between them in the years since. And tonight.

She cared about him and would even go so far as to say she loved him at times. Tonight was one of them. From the moment he'd kissed her, she'd loved him and she loved him still as he lay atop the covers of her bed.

Her eyes moved over his long, lean form, admiring the unique beauty of him. He would undoubtedly scoff at being labeled beautiful, but he was, in his own way. She frowned when her eyes settled on the scar on his right thigh. It was the only thing that marred his outward appearance and it was her part in its presence that bothered her, not the way it looked. It truly took nothing away from him.

He remained devastatingly sexy. From the sensual line of his mouth and that entirely kissable and suckable bottom lip, to the scruff — which she'd never felt before — and the little patch of hair on his chest, to the streamlined muscles that made up the lines and planes of him, and the hands that had touched her so tenderly just a bit ago, he was mouthwateringly delectable.

She wanted to be with him again, but not because of those things, but because he'd acknowledged her grief and reached out to her despite his fears and uncertainty. Because he'd made her feel like a woman, desired and needed and cherished, despite the fact her body had been unable to produce a child.

He had given her something beautiful tonight, from that first kiss until this moment, and she hoped through the morning. She did not want him to leave and she feared he might if he felt he had taken advantage of her, or she'd taken advantage of him. The latter would be laughable under other circumstances, but tonight, he'd responded to her needs and she hadn't really stopped to ask him his feelings.

She'd been singularly selfish and it made her wonder if she deserved to be a mother. The thought was a melodramatic indulgence to her overworked sense of guilt. He'd tell her that if she was awake. But she couldn't help but consider that perhaps her priorities were as out of whack as those of the teen-age mother who'd destroyed her hopes.

She'd been serious when she told him she couldn't go through that again. The pain of its was much. It hurt still and she expected it to hurt for months to come. She had bonded quickly with Joy, before the little girl had even been born. Doctor's visits, ultrasounds, prenatal testing, she'd been there for them, anxious, relieved, excited. And joyful.

Shifting, she brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She closed her eyes against the tears threatening to fall.

She felt none of those things now. There was just a persistent emptiness where that joy was supposed to be, and empty arms where Joy was supposed to be. She should have been rocking her daughter to sleep right now, or hovering over her crib happy but feeling daunted with the responsibility she'd just taken on.

Instead, she'd taken a man into her bed. No one would understand the choice of who that man was. She wasn't even sure she understood it entirely. But he'd cared enough to come see her, and to stay. She was grateful and, at the moment, a little in love with him.

"You okay?"

Opening her eyes, she saw him looking at her, blue eyes glittering in the darkness. Seeing his frown, she gave him a little smile.

"Just feeling sorry for myself," she confessed, her voice soft in the shadows. It carried only a hint of impending tears.

"You just lost a child, Cuddy," he replied. "I think you're entitled."

She felt a tear slip free and she confessed something she'd not told him. This time her grief could be heard.

"She wasn't the first."

His frowned deepened as he worked it out. He didn't say anything, probably because he didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure she would have either beyond an "I'm sorry." To her surprise, those were the next words he uttered. They were said soft and low while his eyes remained on her. From him, they were like gold and touched her in ways that no one else's condolences ever could.

"Do you really think I would be a good mother?" she asked then, needing to know if he'd meant what he'd said earlier.

"Yes," he said then asked, "You don't want to try again?"

She shook her head, which dislodged another tear.

"To have gotten _so_ close… It just hurts too much."

"She gonna pay you back?"

"I don't care about the money," she said. And she didn't. The money was nothing. Joy might not be hers, but she was safely in the world. It was the only consolation out of all of it.

She thought he might argue the point with her, telling her she was being foolish or that she was entitled to demand restitution. But he didn't. What he did do surprised her once more.

He stretched his arm out atop the bed, toward her, his hand open, palm up. Invitation or gesture of commiseration? She didn't know and didn't care. It touched her that he made it either way.

She moved to him, bypassing his hand to move astride him. His arm slipped around her, his hand splaying across the center of her back as her eyes found his.

She took his face in her hands and whispered her one desire of that moment.

"Stay the night?"

His answer came in the form of a kiss, a combination of the kinds they'd shared earlier. Her heart fluttered and she melted against him in want. In need and love. And with a measure of joy.


	5. Chapter 5

Apologies for the delay in the story. Life sort of got in the way, as it unfortunately does at times. Enjoy!

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**Part 5**

He was avoiding her.

Since coming to work, she'd only seen him once, across the clinic area. He'd met her gaze a moment before he'd looked away and ducked into an exam room with a patient.

Her heart had skipped a little beat when those blue eyes had locked on hers. He had looked self-conscious and tucked his chin before moving out of sight.

He had done something similar this morning, slipping out while she was in the shower — but not without putting on a pot of coffee and making the bed first. Both actions had overrode any disappointment she might have felt upon finding him gone. They had surprised her, as had his propensity for snuggling.

In the night, after she had asked him to stay, she had moved from atop him and expected they'd each stake out a side of the bed and wait for sleep. But he had kept her close instead, urging her to use his arm as her pillow while he spooned behind her.

The feel of a male body pressed close to hers, warm and solid, in the comfort of a bed, was something she hadn't experienced in longer than she could remember.

She did not let men bunk over and she didn't stay at their places either. Hotels at out-of-town conventions were a no-go because she was representing the hospital. She had done _that_ once and only once, having been burned by gossip the next morning. She had chalked it up to a lesson learned and resigned herself to sleeping alone unless she trusted the man and desired it with him.

She could honestly say she had not thought it would be House, for a number of reasons — not the least of which was that she was his boss. But last night, he had been that man. She had trusted him with her grief and he had treated her gently and respectfully in return. He had even made himself vulnerable to her; there had been something infinitely beguiling in that.

True intimacy had been long absent from her life, until last night. Her grief had hovered about them, never taking full hold, but lurking at the outskirts. He'd helped her keep it at bay and feel something better than she'd hoped for the night.

He had stirred feelings in her, namely love, which had not waned as night gave way to day, or as the hours passed, or in the face of her grief, or even under the weight of hospital bureaucracy.

She had no idea what would happen when they were next alone in a room together but she knew he couldn't avoid her forever any more than they could really ignore what'd happened. A part of her wanted to force an encounter but she decided against it. She let him have the distance and went about her day, putting up a brave front and ignoring the pitying looks sometimes thrown her direction.

That afternoon, though, from her office window, she watched him leave, blue knapsack slung over his shoulder. She felt her heart pick up pace and would even confess to feeling just the slightest bit breathless at the sight of him.

Typically, he was leaving his shift early, but she let it slide as her eyes took in his limping, jeans- and jacket-clad form. Her mind generously supplied images of him completely exposed in her bed, making her feel other things, and to remember the things she'd felt last night beyond grief and love.

Desire.

She had not acted on it last night beyond the first time. It hadn't seemed right to do so. They'd had sex but it hadn't been just sex; it had been lovemaking and comfort. A second time would have been something _less,_ somehow. But that hadn't stemmed her desire for him, which she confessed that had been on slow burn for longer than either of them would probably admit aloud.

It lingered at the periphery of her mind as she finished up her day and later, when she stood on his doorstep and waited for him to answer her knock. She hadn't left the hospital with the intent of coming to his place but it's where she'd ended up, breathless again, and anxious. She had no idea what mood she'd find him in or how he would want to play things, if they'd agree.

She swallowed hard when the door opened slowly to reveal him wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare. When she met his gaze, she saw a hint of amusement at having been _checked out_, but that shyness was there, too, along with curiosity and apprehension. There was, to her relief, no sign of detachment or irritation.

"Cuddy."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the nervously. "May I come in?"

He answered by stepping backward and opening the door to her. She entered his decidedly masculine domain. The dark bookshelves held tomes of all varieties, mostly leather-bound and hard-backed. The furniture and accents were dark. Guitars hung from the wall and a black, lacquered baby grand sat in the corner, adjacent to a leather couch the color of sodden coffee grounds.

It wasn't her first visit by any means, but it was the first time she could remember coming with something other than professional or medical concerns. This was a personal call.

"Want something to drink?" he asked.

She caught his gaze, wondering if he was asking out of politeness or if it was more than that… It was more.

"Yes, thank you," she replied and when he asked, she said she'd have whatever he was drinking.

She eased around the couch but kept her eyes on him as he limped to the kitchen. She looked away when he came back with an empty glass. She heard the couch creak and knew he'd sat. She stared at the fireplace and the small fire burning there.

"I don't use it much," he remarked.

She smiled and turned slowly to see him looking at her. She'd known he was. She'd felt his gaze.

"I don't use mine much either," she said and took the glass he was holding out to her. She made note then of the guitar leaning against the end table. "Were you playing?" she asked.

"Tuning," he said then gestured to the couch with a glance.

She took the invitation and sat at the end opposite him. Nerves had her sitting stiffly and he noticed.

"You're here to talk about last night," he said, cutting to the chase.

"I don't know," she said honestly. She hadn't really thought about having a lengthy conversation. She'd really only thought about thanking him, and other things. "I just wanted to thank you."

He looked away from her, down at his own glass. "It's unnecessary," he said after a moment.

"It is necessary," she contradicted him. "You … eased my pain."

She knew the words would resonate with him, just as her plea had last night. His blue eyes found hers. Apprehension swam there. He swallowed.

"I had expected you would pretty much hate me by now."

She shook her head, understanding why he might think that. She had been incredibly vulnerable and their kiss had left her even more so. But she was the one who'd asked him to stay, when he'd tried to leave. That he'd been willing to do that and not take advantage.

"Hate is the last thing I feel," she confessed on a breath.

His gaze flickered.

"Cuddy," he began softly but she shook her head again, stopping him.

"Thank you, for all of it," she said softly, tears pricking. "You made it bearable."

His relief was almost palpable as her words fell over him; it was clearly visible. He really had thought she'd hate him and that had her doing yet another thing she hadn't intended — moving to him.

He watched her with a measure of uncertainty as she set her glass on the coffee table and settled directly beside him. He didn't retreat or withdraw when she touched him, brushing her fingertips along his whiskered cheek. They both trembled at the contact and when she took his glass from him and put it with her own.

She looked down as she held his hand gently between both of hers.

"They were discharged today," she said, her voice thready.

No one had told her, likely out of compassion, but she'd seen it on a report before she'd left for the day. She hadn't been able to ignore that or avoid it like she had the nursery and wards. Thoughts of House and their night had been her distraction up until that moment, which was probably why she was here.

"I know."

She smiled even as tears welled, not surprised that he knew. He always knew everything that went on at the hospital, at least most of it anyway.

"I was surprised you went in today."

A part of her hadn't wanted to. "Too much work to do," she deflected.

"No one would have thought less of you if you hadn't."

His voice was so soft. But his mouth was softer.

Without thinking she kissed him, tipping her head up and leaning in to capture his lips with her own. The urgency of last night had abated and in its place was a lush want and intractable need for intimacy.

Surprised, he kissed her back after a moment and she melted into him, her body instinctively seeking his warmth and the comfort he represented. Her heart was already past the point of no return and she let him see that when he drew back and looked at her.

"Is this wise?" he asked as he searched her gaze. She saw his fear and his desire.

"I don't know," she whispered. She hadn't thought about it. She didn't want to think about it. She wanted…

"You want me to go home with you?"

Touched that he would offer, she shook her head. "I don't want to go home."

And she didn't. The thought of walking through the doors to her home without Joy was too painful, even if he was with her. It had been bad enough last night. But now she had to face that the little girl was well and truly gone, off to a life with her birth mother. She didn't think she could take that tonight, which was probably why her subconscious had brought her here, to him.

"You want me to take the couch?"

She shook her head again, her heart aching, her flesh longing. Wise or not, she reached for the promise of passionate solace in his arms.

He looked at her a moment more and she saw his surrender, and felt it when he kissed her again. This time he touched her cheek and cradled her into the caress of his mouth.

She knew she would not be alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Dear readers, I'm sorry it has taken so long for me to get back to this story. I was sidetracked by life responsibilities then I ended up with a nasty chest cold that turned into a bad case of bronchitis. I'm hopefully done hacking up my lungs on a regular basis. Here is what I was able to finish today. Enjoy! - ClinicDuty

* * *

**Part 6**

Nothing about their kisses and one night together in college had hinted at what it would be like to truly be with him intimately. Neither had the years they'd spent working together.

Abrasive and combative in the light of day — and sometimes the night — he could be incredibly difficult to deal with. He was even harder to get to know. He had so many fronts and defenses that made it next to impossible and most people didn't make the effort; he made sure of that. But she tried because she'd known the humanity beneath it all. The glimpses he sometimes allowed her had added up over the years and painted a picture of the man behind the genius, sarcasm, and propensity for juvenile pranks.

He was remarkably tender and considerate, and deeply hurt. She saw that in him, even when he tried to hide it, even when others missed it. She'd seen it back in college but their association had been too short-lived to understand the scope of it. She just knew the infarction had deepened it, leaving him with physical pain as a constant companion to the other.

His fear was rooted in that hurt part of him. He was looking at her with it now, not quite as uncertain as the night before, but definitely still unsure of the situation, of her and himself. She understood his hesitancy, even if his kisses had been anything but.

They were in unexplored territory.

They often flirted, unconventionally, and she'd occasionally found herself entertaining the possibility of pursuing something with him beyond work and friendship. She was undeniably attracted to him, sexually and intellectually. His intelligence and drive were a solid match to her own. They had medicine in common, too.

It was the other things about him that always made her hesitate — namely his addictions and penchant for self-destruction. She suspected they were the reasons he hesitated, too, despite his attraction to her. He knew who he was and what he was capable of, even if he didn't understand why he did some things.

They had denied their mutual attraction on more than one occasion, but she would have to be an idiot to not know. He was very vocal about it and never missed a chance to ogle her.

Honestly, she could have fired him long ago for sexual harassment, but she hadn't because, frankly, she'd never really felt harassed — at least not that way. Having to constantly clean up his messes, harangue him over ethics, and smooth the feathers he ruffled with hospital staff … those were the things that made her feel harassed.

But that feeling was not present now and she could hardly conjure a memory of one of those moments as she looked at him, just inches away.

The harshness that too often resided in the lines of his face was absent. His pain seemed less as he looked at her, both timid and hopeful, like a child about to open a gift, afraid of what it contained: the gift he had asked for or something else.

That made her feel special and her heart fluttered with the realization that she was the gift in that particular metaphor.

Reaching up, she touched his face gently. His eyes fell slowly shut as she swept her thumb in an arc across his cheek, stirring the stubble there. The slight knitting of his brow eased under her touch. When he looked at her again, the timidity was gone and hope had become certainty. It made her breath catch. She caressed him once more then eased away and stood beside the couch.

Before worry could overtake him again, she held out her hand. He took it and stood, too. His right hand automatically went to his thigh as he balanced himself. She laid her hands on his shoulders then smoothly stepped out of her designer heels. She toed them behind her, out of the way, then stepped closer to him, until her chest touched his.

She felt him take a quick breath that matched her own reaction to the contact. His eyes searched hers even as his hands found her waist. The heaviness of physical desire— and God help her, that of her heart — settled about her when he bowed, clearly intent on kissing her again.

She could not stop the whispered "yes" that fell from her lips just before he captured them with her own. Nor the one she gasped into him when he slipped his arms around her and lifted her just a bit, up onto her toes.

_This_ was what she wanted. If she could not feel the joy of motherhood, she wanted to feel like a woman. At the moment, she wanted to be his and the strength of that desire rattled her fine bones and had her clutching his head in her hands and holding him close as she returned his kiss.

Soft and sleek. Sexy and wet. Their mouths moved in unison, like the night before in the hallway of her home. They wanted each other. They needed each other. They were hungry for a connection, for more than meaningless sex with a stranger.

She wanted fire and passion and the tenderness she knew he could provide. No one had ever made her feel more, fight harder, or yearn deeper than he did.

Getting lost in him was either the worst idea she'd ever had or the most perfect one. She didn't really care at the moment which it was, even if a part of her prayed and even believed it was the latter. No, what she cared about was the burning in her flesh that was cauterizing the wound in her heart.

She reluctantly released his mouth as he lowered her back to her feet, but he lingered close, lips just within reach as his hands relieved her of her suit jacket then pulled the tails of her shirt from her skirt. She helped him unbutton it and strip it off her. She unzipped her skirt and he pushed it from her hips.

Their breaths came hot, short, and quick between them. Lips touched and caressed then eased away again when she reached for the hem of his t-shirt. He moved away from her long enough to shirk it off and toss it aside. Then he was kissing her once more, arms back around her, lifting her to him.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, caressing him as their mouths melded into slow, deep kisses. He tasted like fine whiskey. His tongue was tender and thorough as it touched and curled around her own.

She touched his cheek gently when he pulled away a moment to catch his breath. She did not open her eyes but knew that he had. She could feel him looking at her. Then she felt him moving. She looked then and he caught her gaze as he hooked his hands behind her thighs and lifted her up.

He kissed her before she could protest and she wrapped her legs around him before he could lose his balance. She just held onto him as he turned and carried her down the hall to his bedroom.

She wouldn't have thought he could do it, but he did, limping the entire way, stopping only a couple times. She didn't know if those pauses were to give himself a break or her a kiss — because he had kissed her each time, pressing her against the wall as his mouth delicately plundered hers.

God, how she'd loved that and how he was now setting her on the side of his bed. And how he was kissing her and how his fingers were gently searching for the hem of her camisole.

He let out a soft sound when he found it and she looked up at him when he righted himself and began pulling the garment up her body. She unhooked her bra and he took it, too, then her breasts into his palms.

She covered his hands with her own, caressed the veins and muscles, the bones of his fingers and knuckles. She shut her eyes and let her head fall back as he thumbed her nipples, bending them to and fro, circling and twisting and—

"Cuddy."

The fervent whisper had her looking up at her lover — and he was her lover at this moment in time. His eyes were dark but gentle. There was so much more than desire lurking in those blue depths, the implications of which she did not want to ponder. She just wanted to feel this and that and not think.

She lay back on the bed and he watched her, hands releasing her as she reached for the waist of her thong. She tugged at the thin material and he took over, divesting her of it like he had her other clothing, leaving her exposed before him, her body and her heart.

She let him see what she felt in that moment, let him see that she didn't just want him, but that she needed him and that she loved him. The latter was hardest for her to admit to herself but she felt it and she needed him to know just now.

His expression softened and she saw clearly his own feelings for her, and they ran much deeper than she'd ever imagined. It sparked the beginnings of tears.

She held out her arms to him and beckoned.

"House…"


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

He was inside her again.

He could see her, feel her, smell her, and taste her.

She was hot and tight and wet. She was hungry and possessive. She touched and kissed him with abandon and yet with a tenderness that he had rarely experienced in his life. She was giving and he was accepting it and giving back the best he knew how.

It was too much and not enough.

Last night had been about comfort. Tonight was something different. He felt claimed and was claiming in return. He believed she was reclaiming herself. There was maybe something else or more but it was impossible for him to analyze when she was moving beneath him in perfect sync. He cursed the part of his brain that was trying. He didn't want to analyze. He just wanted to feel, her and what she made him feel and what he felt for her. He wanted to be in the moment with her.

He kissed her with the need that drove him, mouth locking with hers as he sank deep then stilled inside her. She pressed her fingers firmly into the muscles of his back and whimpered a protest but she eased when he gathered her into his arms and held her impossibly closer to him. She kissed him in kind and held him, too.

He desperately wanted to rise up on his knees and let her ride him but he couldn't. The position was impossible to maintain with his leg so he rolled them instead and watched her sit up slowly.

Her hair was all about her, a wild tangle of curls that she didn't bother to tame as she smoothed her hands down over his chest. Her eyes followed their path and he found himself watching the minute changes in her expression.

_Wonder. Self-satisfaction. Want. Vulnerability. Confidence._

He felt as well as saw the latter take over. He gripped her thighs when she began riding him. He'd fantasized about her just like that too many times to count. The reality was perfect.

He looked down to see where they were joined, then up to see the mesmerizing bounce and sway of her breasts. Her throat moved as she swallowed. Her head was thrown back, her face was upturned to the ceiling, but her eyes were closed. She bit her lip and her hands closed around his forearms when he rolled his hips under hers.

She tightened around him and it was good. So damned good. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of her. She made him reconsider his views on the existence of an all-powerful being, but not in the way people might think. He thought if there was an all-powerful being in the universe, it might be her.

She certainly held power over him. As dominant as he was in their relationship, she could easily make or destroy him at any time, especially now as she took him in and out of her. She knew it, too. He saw it in her eyes when she finally looked at him again. But that power was steeped in something softer, something that wanted anything but his destruction.

His racing heart shuddered at the sight of it. He found himself reaching for her, hands sliding to her waist then up and around to her back. He grazed his fingers over her damp skin and felt her shiver.

She came down to him, her hands moving to cradle his face. She looked at him a moment before kissing him slow and soft, drawing a sound from him that he could never remember making before. It wasn't satisfaction. It wasn't a signal of escalating desire. It was something else and it made him shiver all over when she made the sound, too.

He kissed her in kind and she pressed herself closer to him. He held her, his hands lightly cupping her shoulders. In that moment, she felt delicate and fragile, like fine china. She huddled against him as if she were. Then she was rising up again and he let her go but never let his hands lose contact with her. He skimmed along her arms, found her breasts again and caressed her in time with her movements over him.

She watched him as she took him in and out of her. He was struck by the sheer honesty of what he saw in her darkened blue eyes. She cared about him and he saw that care. He also saw more than that, what he'd label as love. He'd seen it last night, too, but had wondered if he imagined it. He'd wondered the same earlier, too, but he didn't wonder any more.

This was real. It wasn't a fantasy. She was real. What she felt was clear and she was making it known with her body, in how she looked at him and touched him and made love with him. It was the same as he felt for her and he tried to convey it with his own flesh.

He found her hands with his and laced their fingers. She brought them to rest against her hips as she rode him. Her eyes remained on him as she took them toward orgasm. He watched her because he simply couldn't look anywhere else. His existence was pared down to her as he moved with her.

When they came it was together, a rare and elusive culmination. He had enjoyed it few times in his life — it had been years since the last time — and he reveled in experiencing it with her.

He wrapped his arms around her when she came down to him again and engaged him in more soft kisses. She seemed content with doing just that, between labored breaths, until their bodies had cooled and calmed in the middle of his bed.

She lay her head on his shoulder then, stretched out her body atop his.

"This okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he somehow managed to get his tongue to work enough to form words.

She went still after she rested a hand against the curve where his neck met his shoulder. He thought she might sleep then but she didn't. He surprisingly didn't feeling the usual post-great sex call to slumber.

He grazed his fingers up and down her back. Her skin had dried and she quivered on each pass of his fingertips.

"Thank you for letting me stay."

It was a barely audible whisper against his throat and followed by an even lighter kiss to his Adam's apple. She nuzzled his whiskers then and spoke before he could.

"You didn't have this in Michigan."

She smiled when she said it and he found himself smiling, too. He remembered those days, that one night, but he hadn't thought she'd be the one to bring it up.

"Like it?" he asked, curious.

She nuzzled him again, dragging her lips lightly through the prickly growth, making him shiver, before answering affirmatively.

"It's … appealing," she said then gently grazed her teeth along his jaw. He moaned softly when she did that then took a deep breath to quell the desire it sparked.

She let out a soft laugh then resettled against him with a sigh that he'd label as contented. That she would feel that surprised him a little, considering the emotional landscape of the last few days. He believed he was good in bed and that they were definitely good together, but even his considerable ego wouldn't allow him to believe that two nights of sharing a bed would move her completely past heartbreak to joy.

_Joy._ That's what she'd named the child. The painful irony was not lost on him anymore than he suspected it was on her. Whatever she was feeling at the moment, the loss would be with her some time yet. He could mercilessly draw her away from it, attract her ire and force her to confront it head-on, but he resolved to leave that wound alone. He had done enough damage on that account.

"What are you thinking?"

The question drew him from his thoughts and made him realize she'd moved and was now propped up and looking at him. Startled, he met her gaze and shook his head. He doubted she really wanted to know the exact nature of his thoughts but knew better than to think she hadn't already gleaned them. The way she was looking at him, so somber, told him that well enough.

"Why did you come?"

His question netted a smile and made him realize he'd given her the perfect, if unintended double entendre.

"I would have thought that pretty obvious," she teased and he smiled in return. He liked the playful side of her. He always got a thrill when she let loose.

He chose not to speak but touched her instead, his fingers gently brushing a curling tendril back and tucking it behind her ear. The action sparked a confession and answer to his question.

"I didn't plan to," she said softly. "I was going home but I found myself knocking on your door."

He cradled her jaw and searched her eyes before speaking. "You didn't want to be alone."

"No," she whispered. "I didn't."

He saw tears well with the confession and it humbled him that she would allow them in his presence.

"I'm the last person people seek out for comfort," he said then, an unspoken question behind his words: _Why would you, again?_

She gave him a little smile again. "Not everyone needs or finds comfort in the same way."

"No," he said softly in agreement.

He didn't press the subject more and she didn't elaborate. He let the answer be enough, for now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

He woke alone and to the aroma of Chinese food.

He put on the pair of pajama bottoms thrown across the foot of the bed then limped his way to the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes as he went. He smiled at the sight that greeted him at the butcher-block island: Lisa Cuddy with her back was to him and opening cartons; she wore the matching pajama top to his bottoms.

He hadn't thought to ask her earlier if she was hungry. He hadn't been but he was now, and for more than Chinese. But that could wait.

Tilting his head to the side he ogled the length off her legs and the flare of the shirttail around her hips and ass before announcing his presence.

"Sex. Sleep. Food. I thought that was pretty much a guy thing."

She snorted and turned.

"I wondered how long it would take you to _smell_ the dinner bell."

Her words were teasing but he heard a note of trepidation in her voice and saw it in her eyes. He understood its presence; they had never been in this situation before.

"Number 2 on the speed dial," she teased again. "They knew your order."

"They have it tacked up next to the phone," he said with a smirk and scratched at his whiskers.

"I'm guessing Number 1 is—"

"Dial-a-Wilson. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't let my neediness fulfill his need to be needed?" he cut her off then asked, "Did you try the others?"

He knew she had. She was curious by nature and he had his answer when she blushed.

"I'm not on it," she noted, but didn't seem offended. If anything curiosity remained in play.

"I put forth an effort when I call you," he said, lifting his right hand and flexing his index finger.

"I'm flattered," she said with a smile that spoke of how well she knew him. He sometimes forgot that. But she knew he was lazy and that if he actually took the time to do something as simple as punch in the numbers on a phone, that it was important to him, that she was important.

Lowering his hand, he closed the distance to her. She looked up at him and her blue-gray eyes searched his as she laid a hand on his bare chest.

He touched her face gently, fingers grazing her skin then brushing at the dark tendrils of her hair that had fallen to caress her ear. She trembled and so did he.

"You want a number?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You know my numbers."

Heart thumping steady against his ribs, he whispered, "Yeah."

Her hand skimmed up over his chest. The other moved along the length of his arm, up to curl around his shoulder. He watched her shut her eyes then lean in to plant a soft kiss to his sternum. His own eyes fell shut when she began nuzzling, her breath caressing his skin, her lips grazing here and there, along his collarbone then up along his neck as she raised onto her toes.

He swallowed around the lump of emotion forming in his throat. He wasn't accustomed to the kind of tenderness she was showing him. He wasn't accustomed to returning it, but he did, with her.

Bowing, he found his way into the curve of her neck, fingers gently moving her hair aside so that he could press a kiss to her skin. He breathed her in and trembled when she did the same, turning her own face into his neck.

They mirrored kiss for kiss, breath for breath and he grew drunk on the symmetry. He reveled in the warm softness of her against him. Every part of him responded to her openness and vulnerability with like same.

They often went toe-to-toe, matching wits and just about everything else. This, earlier, and last night, was just a non-combative, intimate version of what they had spent years doing.

He eased his arms down and around her. He drew her closer still and sought out her mouth. She met him and they kissed with the same gentleness as they'd touched each other.

If he weren't a jaded reprobate, he might have missed the near-innocence of each caress of lips and hands. But he didn't miss it. He welcomed it with an inner peace he had once resigned himself to never feeling in his life.

She was perfect and his, at least for the time being, and he wasn't going to waste the moment. He picked her up again, like he had earlier, and she wrapped herself around him. He took her back to his room and laid her out across the disheveled bedding.

Food would wait. She needed this more and the proof was in how slowly and tenderly they made love.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 9**

The takeout had turned cold by the time they re-emerged from the bedroom and neither of them cared.

She sent him to the living room while she went to the kitchen. There, he took up a seat on the couch and watched her load a serving tray with the opened boxes of food. Her every move was suffused with sensuality and she looked at ease in a way he rarely saw her.

Usually she was engaged or preoccupied. She spent a lot of time planning and enacting plans. She juggled a lot professionally. Personally, her life appeared as barren as his own, perhaps more so. He had Wilson at least, and her, at times. She had Wilson, too, but differently, and House was fairly certain he had been less available for her than she had been for him. He didn't know if she had other friends but he knew she rarely dated and he'd seen no sign of interactions with others beyond hospital functions, the occasional phone calls from her mother, and calls and emails from her sister.

His ignorance was due to selfishness. He hadn't cared about her social engagements so long as she engaged with him and no one else was vying for her attention. It was a childish perspective and one that was no longer an option for him to use after seeing her at her most vulnerable and allowing himself to be vulnerable with her.

He had no doubt he would still pull pranks, and be selfish, and an ass, and face off with her when the opportunities presented themselves, but things had changed between them. The board had been reset and he did not know how different the game would be now. He just knew it wasn't a game any more — and never had been.

They had definitely _played_ games. They had flirted. And it had been fun, except whenever they'd taken things far enough to wound. He'd done it too often and he regretted it; he always had, even when he hadn't possessed the courage to admit it. Still, she had forgiven him every time and was letting him be with her now. He wasn't sure he would ever understand why but he was grateful.

His eyes tracked her movements as she lifted the tray and brought into the living room. When she neared the couch, he reached for the tray and took it from her. He set it on the coffee table while she sat near him.

He handed her one of the containers and a set of chopsticks after she pulled her legs up onto the couch and settled. He then picked out the one that held his favorite dish and relaxed into his corner.

"This is good," she said after a few moments.

He agreed. Even cold, good Chinese was still good. More than once, he'd eaten leftovers while standing within the open door of the refrigerator. It was a perfectly bachelor thing to do but he would probably do it even if he were involved.

_Involved._

Looking at Cuddy, he wondered if they were _involved_ now? He knew they could be, if they both wanted it. But he wasn't sure if she would want it, or even if he did. It was too soon to ask or discuss it, especially considering the catalyst for the change in their relationship. Time would tell if would be more. She would want to talk about it at some point. He wasn't much for talking but he knew it would be necessary. They needed to know … _something_.

For now, though, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and filled his stomach while she filled her own. He surprised her when he took on the task of cleaning up. He liked the expression of delight and wonder that descended when he stood and picked up the tray.

She followed him and he glanced to see her leaning in the doorway of the kitchen and watching him as he tossed the chopsticks and empty cartons into the trash. She looked bemused.

"What?" he asked.

She just shook her head, prompting him to turn back to the island and close up the few leftovers before putting them in the fridge. She came up to him when he was done and kissed his cheek before easing away. She grazed her fingers along his arm as she retreated and he took it as an invitation.

He trailed after her to his bathroom. He admired the perfection of her ass when she leaned over and turned the water on in his tub. He propped his shoulder against the door jamb and ogled every inch of her after she set the drain plug, righted herself, and shed the pajama top.

_Wow. _

Up until this point, he'd only seen her nude in semi-darkness, enough to know she was beautiful, but seeing her in the brightness of his bathroom…

_Beautiful doesn't even begin to describe her._

He went to her before she could turn to him. He touched her cheek and guided her gently to an angle that made it easy for him to kiss her. She threaded her fingers into his hair as returned the soft smacks.

She smiled up at him when he drew back but looked a little self-conscious. He smiled when she revealed why.

"Do you have an extra toothbrush?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

"Call in."

The words were a raspy whisper in the early morning dark. They were accompanied by the skimming of fingertips along her spine. Those digits had explored every part of her last night and she shivered at the memories of exactly how and of how they felt now.

She looked over her shoulder at him. She could just make out the glitter of his eyes in the shadows. The features of his face were softer than usual, the lines less prominent.

"Too much to do," she said, her own voice hushed. She didn't want to disturb the quiet and peaceful haven she'd found here, with him. It was precious.

"It can wait," he murmured, fingers continuing to caress lightly over her skin, causing gooseflesh to rise in their wake. "Come back to bed."

Oh, she was tempted. His gentleness was intoxicating. She had gotten drunk on it last night and well into the early-morning hours. She'd only slept a couple and the thought of leaving was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to stay and felt the sting of tears when she admitted it to herself. They were tears of something she wasn't quite sure she could identify. She looked away from him in hopes of hiding them. It was a pointless endeavor; he saw everything.

"Stay," he whispered, his fingers easing around to her side and tugging gently. "The hospital will be fine for a day."

She covered his hand with hers and bowed her head, debating. She was so close to saying "yes" but her devotion to the hospital was rearing its head. It was her baby as surely as Joy had been for a few precious hours, a flesh-and-blood counterpart that she had wanted desperately. Her heart ached at the loss, for the first time since yesterday evening.

Feeling a tear threaten to slip free, she knew that work would take her mind off of it. It would have been the immediate choice before but it wasn't now; her options had changed in the last forty-eight hours. She honestly didn't know if staying here, sleeping in and disconnecting from the world would help.

When she didn't answer him right away, he suggested another option.

"You don't have to stay here. But take some time for yourself," he said. His tone was both resigned and timid, revealing his desire: he didn't want her to leave.

She wondered what it meant that they again wanted the same thing, at the same time. They had certainly crossed into new territory, but how far? Her love for him was stirred and prominent and she saw his mirroring affection for her but how far were they going to let it go? How far did they _want_ it to go?

_Going to work would be the wise thing to do,_ she told herself as she considered those questions, but she _wasn't_ really convinced. She didn't know what to do. She just knew what she felt and what she didn't want to feel.

Work would occupy her mind, for the most part, but it wouldn't let her rest. Staying here, or home, she might rest but she would have more time to think about Joy, which would leave her vulnerable to the grief she'd prefer to bury at the moment.

_Which is what he is encouraging me not to do_, she realized as she sat there. He wanted her to deal with it, which was a rather remarkable thing considering he had elevated avoidance to an art form. But he wasn't avoiding anything right now, except maybe work but that unvoiced accusation rang hollow.

He was being kind, considerate and supportive. He rarely conveyed those emotions in conventional ways, but he was right now, for her, giving her the option of being alone with her grief or having him near.

Before yesterday, she'd have doubted his capacity for such generosity; not that he was incapable of it but his ability to let himself do so. It spoke to his vulnerability, his humanity which he so often hid.

That alone made the decision for her and yet she hadn't realized she'd made it until she realized she was nodding. When she did, he eased his hold on her and gently stroked her back again. She reached for her cell phone and relished his continued caresses as she called and left a message for her assistant.

She offered the phone to her lover but he shook his head.

"No one will miss me for a while," he said. "I'll call later."

She smiled. She had never been grateful for his aversion to punctuality but acknowledged that his perpetual tardiness bought him time and them a measure of privacy that she suddenly felt the need for.

They had things to work out for themselves and with each other, and they needed to do it in their own time and how it worked best for them. Outside influence and pressure would upset things and she didn't want that. She was happy even though she was sad, and that had everything to do with being with him. She wanted more of that and she didn't want anyone or anything to spoil that, for either of them.

"Your boss would expect nothing less," she teased him quietly.

His expression was amused. "Good thing she likes me, huh?"

"Yes," she said, her heart fluttering. "It is."

His hand moved along the edge of the covers and lifted them in silent invitation to rejoin him. She did, setting her phone back on the nightstand before sidling up next to him and resting her head on his shoulder.

He curled his arm around her then breathed a warm kiss into her hair.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

She shut her eyes and slept.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

The sand of the Jersey shore was warm between her toes.

She had no idea what she was doing at the beach. She had even less of an idea about why she'd conceded to ride on the back of a motorcycle to get there.

She had thought they would stay tucked away in his apartment for the day, shutting out the world but House'd had other ideas. He'd suggested a drive but had no particular destination in mind and she hadn't been able to think of any place she wanted to go.

Sleeping in had left her without her usual compulsion to control and plan so she'd let him take the lead and they'd just driven away from Princeton. It wasn't something she usually did, giving him control, considering his penchant for being insanely unpredictable, but she had not gone wrong in doing so since the other night.

He was handling her wounded heart with obvious care, something she'd rarely seen him do for anyone, other than in some unorthodox fashion. She supposed that was a valid enough reason to ditch her fear of motorcycles long enough to climb onto the back of his and ride across the state.

The seat hadn't been entirely comfortable but she'd enjoyed being close to him as they wound their way east, along tree-lined highways. She was enjoying being close to him now, as they strolled along the shore. His leg and cane made it slow going but she didn't mind. She was content — despite the fact the breeze was doing a number on her hair. The dark, curling tendrils were dancing about her on the wind like a kite on a string. They were going to be a mess to untangle but she couldn't be bothered to care like she normally would.

They were miles away from Princeton and the hospital and didn't know anyone here. In fact, they pretty much had the beach to themselves with the temperature sitting just at the edge of comfortable. It was significantly cooler than the sand, making her glad they'd gone by her place so that she could change into more suitable clothing for the trip. She was doubly glad when she noticed dark clouds forming in the distance, out over the water.

She frowned, wondering if the squall would hit land and what that meant for returning home. It was the first thing she'd worried about all day and she hated how it made her feel. It also made her realize exactly how much she worried on a daily basis, how it was both an impetus and burden. She wanted the contentment back almost immediately but didn't know how to return to that state.

She stopped and looked up at House. His blue eyes found hers almost immediately. She saw a flash of worry but it settled into understanding, of her.

"I wondered when it would rear its head," he said and she gave him an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry."

His gaze searched hers then he asked, "You want to go back?"

"No," she said and honestly meant it. Whatever the weather was going to do, she didn't want to go. She wanted to be exactly where she was and her feelings did not change even after the storm crept onto the shore and sent them in search of refuge from the rain.

Reasoning it would be unpleasant, not to mention risky, to try to head back inland on the bike without the proper gear, House drove them to the nearest lodgings so they could get in out of the rain, dry off, and warm up.

The little seaside hotel wasn't the sort of place she usually stayed, but what it lacked in amenities, it made up for with cleanliness and character. And hot water.

She took advantage of the latter after working out the tangles in her hair using the brush she kept in her purse. She had nothing to change into after the shower but there was a fairly decent towel large enough to wrap around her. With the change in her relationship with House, she didn't feel the need to seek out more.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she noted that her companion had made himself comfortable. He sat in one of the chairs at the table by the window. He'd kicked off his boots and propped his feet on the bed … and he was rubbing at his thigh, something she hadn't seen him do in the last couple of days.

She frowned knowing he probably wasn't very comfortable at all. She wondered if he'd taken any Vicodin, how much he'd taken, and if it would be enough to ease his pain. But she refrained from bringing up that subject.

"Does the rain make it worse?" she asked, ashamed that she'd never asked him before.

His attention turned to her as she approached, his gaze invariably moving from hers to drift leisurely and heatedly down over her body.

"Sometimes," he said almost absently as he moved his feet to the floor then reached for her hips. He guided her to stand between his legs.

She flushed hot and took a shallow breath when he moved his hands and gently caressed the backs of her thighs, just above the bends of her knees. He paused a moment — _probably to see if I am going to reject his attentions _— then caressed his way upward, to just beneath the hem of the towel. He went no farther, but the deliberate nature of the touch and how he was looking at her narrowed her world to him and only him.

She saw desire, but uncoupled from the need to comfort. It was pure want of her and it made her heart skip a beat and her sex grow heavy with a mirroring want of him.

She wanted to touch him but reached for the towel instead. She ignored the parted curtains behind him and parted the material that concealed her. Her breath hitched as she boldly dropped the towel to the floor and stood naked before him, close enough to feel his breath on her skin.

She trembled and quivered then shut her eyes when he leaned in and kissed her belly. The grazing of his lips across her skin fed her want for more.

"House," she whispered and delved her hands into his hair. It was cool and slightly damp from the rain, but his mouth was warm as he trailed his breathy kisses across her abdomen.

A lightness filled her insides, making them flutter with increasingly familiar feelings. Love melded with desire as she sent her hands downward to curl gently into the material of his t-shirt. She tugged and he eased back and helped her remove it.

His hands returned to her hips and urged her to step back. She did and he rose. He shut the curtains behind him then looked at her. She touched his now-bare chest, fingers brushing his skin as his lips had hers.

He bowed and nuzzled into her neck, still kissing so lightly that she shivered. His hands found her back and skimmed the length of her spine. They settled on her lower back and the heat from him further kindled her own.

He compelled her to move again, still backward, to the bed. He followed closely, limping the couple steps needed. She sat at the edge of the mattress and repeated his actions of moments before. Hands on his hips, she guided him to her. She kissed his belly then found the buckle of his belt. She was almost breathless as she opened it then popped open the button of his jeans.

He was hard beneath the fabric, the length of him visible. She laid her hand along the prominent ridge and caressed, but only briefly as the need to see him and touch him directly overwhelmed her.

Gently but urgently, she lowered his zipper then worked his jeans down, then his boxer briefs, freeing him.

He sucked in a breath when she cradled him with her hand, pressing the length against his body before she curled her fingers around him with clear intent.

They had not done this yet. To this point it had been about comfort and connection, for both of them. This was about pleasure and the desire to experience.

Leaning in, she grazed her lips along the silken skin that covered his sex. His hands touched her head when she drew in a deep, deliberate breath. He let out a sound of pure pleasure when she took him into her mouth slowly. She steadily swallowed him with ever-longer and deeper, soft, suckling kisses.

This was not something she did often, at least not without a condom involved, but she knew how and she remembered doing it for him all those years ago without one. And there wouldn't be one now. She wanted to taste him and feel him and treat him to unhindered delight. So she did, using her lips and tongue and hands to draw deep sounds of arousal from him. She echoed them as he grew harder, longer, and thicker in the heat of her mouth.

She looked up at him when he gently coaxed her to release his erection. She was hard-pressed to define exactly what she saw in him, but it was a heady mixture of things — good things — and a promise of more.

Without a word, she pushed his clothing down farther so that he could step out of the garments. She eased back on the bed then, ready to feel him inside her, but he stopped her before she got far.

Her breath coming short and labored, she watched him grab the chair from behind him and move it to the side of the bed. He sat then reached for her legs. She followed his lead as he maneuvered her to where he could return her attentions without straining his leg.

He caressed her first, hands smoothly stroking her limbs from ankle to hips and back again, outside, along the back, then inside, pushing her legs wider as he ascended.

She could barely breathe when he focused his attention on her sex, gazing at her with an intensity that was almost tactile. Then he bowed and kissed her, his fingers stroking her inner thighs as he nuzzled then pressed his lips gently to her curls.

She all but whimpered when, with infinite gentleness, he opened her to him. The first caress of his tongue had her gasping. The first lap had her moaning. The sounds grew deeper, her breaths faster and softer as he tasted her and kissed her deeply.

She shut her eyes and basked in his attentions, in being enjoyed just for the sake of it. It was note perfect and her body responded in ways it hadn't in ages. The pleasure was bone-melting and made her feel wanton.

Hands in his hair again, she drew him tighter to her. He moaned his approval into her and she shuddered in response. She felt greedy but wanted more and he gave it without her saying a word, moving the attentions of his mouth to her swollen bud while he slipped a pair of fingers inside her.

He stroked her and she rolled her hips to meet the welcome invaders. He stayed with her, pushing her steadily toward orgasm. She didn't resist. She wanted it and told him so, asking him to make her come.

He did, without hesitation, intensifying his efforts until she was crying out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

Her body still thrumming with want, she captured his hand before he could move it from between her thighs. She held him there, keeping his fingers inside her as she sat up slowly.

He met her gaze and she saw the same hunger that she felt. She met him for a kiss that was hot and sexy, and slick with her. She could taste herself on and in him and she relished the sharing. It was honest and erotic and it made her ache for a deeper connection.

Reaching between them, she took his erection in hand. He pulled his mouth from hers and took a shuddering breath. He pressed his brow to hers as she caressed him slowly. He grunted with each upstroke. It was a soft sound, low and deep, and she loved hearing it. She loved that he was feeling something other than pain. And she loved him, fearlessly.

Tilting her head, she pressed a kiss to his mouth, whispered, "I want _you_ now."

He trembled at her declaration and she released his hand to touch his cheek. He opened his eyes and looked at her while she continued to caress his length.

"I…," he began then stopped.

Talkative as he could be, it didn't really surprise her that words had failed him when they were in the midst of truly becoming lovers. She was surprised _she_ could speak. He was looking at her so earnestly, as if willing her to understand him and know what he wanted and needed in that moment. The degree of vulnerability was devastating, prompting her to caress his cheek once more and offer him assurances.

"I know," she told him, her fingers stroking the line of his jaw. He shut his eyes and leaned into her touch and she felt her heart break open for him. She wondered when the last time was that he really let himself express a need for anything other than an end to his pain.

His pain in mind, she whispered a question.

"Where?" she asked, wanting to know what would be best for him with his leg hurting.

He didn't take offense or become defensive. He responded with action, carefully easing his hand from her then wrapping both his arms around her. He palmed the cheeks of her ass and drew her toward him.

Without a word, she released his erection long enough to move into his lap then recaptured and positioned him. He caressed her hips and guided her down.

Eyes on his, she let him control the speed of her descent. It was slow and measured, as if he was cataloging the sensation in memory but the sounds coming from him spoke to something more visceral, the savoring of now, this moment and anticipating the next.

She was with him, wanting the same thing and needed him in a way she could hardly believe. She had never wanted any man more than she did Greg House in this moment and he was filling her full of him. Her body was accommodating him with ease and alacrity, just as her heart had already done.

It might have frightened her if he didn't look just as lost in the moment as she was, mesmerized by the sheer wonder of having an incomprehensible, unvoiced need finally being met, unexpectedly but perfectly.

When they'd left Princeton, she hadn't given thought to the possibility of _this_.

Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him, pouring her heart into the soft caress of her lips. He accepted and returned it, his hands now moving over her back and drawing her closer as she settled him fully into her.

She moulded her body to his, chest pressed to chest as they kissed deeper, slower, and longer. She threaded her fingers in his hair then slid them down to the nape of his neck and across his shoulders. His body was hot and, like hers, covered in a light sheen of sweat.

She loved feeling the muscles move beneath his skin as he caressed her back. She loved the way his whiskers felt against her skin, how the little tuft beneath his bottom lip pricked her own. She loved the smell of him, the taste of him, and how he felt inside her. But she wanted more.

Their eyes met when she eased her lips from his. She palmed the nape of his neck and guided him to her breasts. He went without a word and shut his eyes as his mouth descended on one of the soft mounds. She trembled at feeling the brush of his eyelashes against her hypersensitive skin.

His gentle suckling sparked the invisible connection between her nipple and womb. She rolled her hips into the cradle of his in response and was rewarded with a deep groan of approval from her lover.

"Yes," she breathed as she ruffled her fingers through his hair again. She held him gently to her, followed him when he moved to her other breast, then when he kissed his way up along her throat. She welcomed him when he captured her mouth again for soft, sensual kisses.

His on her hips again, he coaxed her to move. She did, taking him in and out of her as he guided her to a pace that let them climb to the crest together. It was neither fast or slow, but somewhere in between. She thought fleetingly of a metronome then of his musical skills as he splayed his hand across her lower belly and pressed his thumb to her bud. She gasped as he circled it in counterpoint to her movements. All thought fled in that moment. She experienced instead.

_Pleasure. Connection. Love._

His eyes sought out hers and she saw his affection for her. It was there, a reverent gentleness that sat in stark counter to the strength of what she knew they were both feeling, physically and emotionally. She never wanted it to end. She wanted to freeze the moment in time.

Reaching for his face, she held him gently and said his name.

That was all it took to send him over the edge.

Seeing and feeling him come was all it took for her to follow him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 13**

_What are we doing?_

The thought came to her as she lay in her bed next to him. It was early morning and he was sleeping still. Even though it was about an hour before she had to rise, she had already turned off the alarm to keep from waking him — or to at least not make his waking a jarring experience. She'd kept him up late into the night and she was pondering waking him now.

Her eyes on his profile as he lay on his back, she wondered what he'd do if she did. Would he be grumpy? Would he be interested in a bit of lovemaking before they rejoined the real world?

Yesterday had been perfect as far as she was concerned. They'd considered staying the night at the little beachside hotel until the weather had cleared. Her sense of responsibility had asserted itself then and he hadn't tried to talk her out of returning home.

It had been early evening when they made it back. She'd dismounted from his bike and taken off the helmet. He'd sat astride the machinery and when she'd handed the helmet to him, he'd looked at her with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

She'd leaned in and kissed him, ignoring the bulk of the helmet and how it hindered her hand from caressing him. He'd kissed her back and she'd felt her heart flutter weightlessly in her breast, making her want more.

Blindly, she'd found the key on the bike and shut off the engine then eased her mouth from his. She'd met his gaze for a moment before taking the helmet back from him and heading toward the front door of her home. He'd followed her inside.

They'd had supper. They'd taken a bath together. They'd made love and explored each other with more thoroughness than earlier in the day. They'd had a midnight snack then made love again before they succumbed to the need to sleep.

They hadn't talked much through it all, just cursory things. They'd yet to talk about what they were doing, where things were leading, what their hopes and fears were about it all, and how they were going to handle it if things progressed.

But it hadn't seemed to matter at the time and she didn't feel a pressing need to define it even now. She chalked her circumspection up to having no regrets — and she didn't regret a moment of the last few days. She certainly entertained none now, with him in her bed. She liked that immensely, except that the covers concealed him below the waist.

_Pity_, she thought then added, _But not for long._

Desire kindling, she laid her hand on his chest and caressed him gently, then touched his mouth, fingertips grazing the softness of his lips. That woke him. He turned his head and looked at her through hooded eyes. She watched sleep fall away from him when she whispered.

"I want you."

He didn't say a word. He didn't question. He just slowly lifted the covers and moved over her as she rolled onto her back. He kissed her first, grazing his lips breathily against hers before capturing them for soft, leisurely caresses that made her want him even more. He then gave her what she desired and took his own pleasure with her, over and inside her. They came together and the power of it rattled her bones.

It was difficult to get out of bed after that, but she managed somehow. Just as she managed to shower.

Unlike that first night, he hadn't left while she bathed. When she emerged from the bathroom, he was laying on his back, atop the mussed bedding, naked and asleep again.

As she dressed for work, she wondered if he would call in or show up for work — and if he did show up, what time he would make his appearance.

She didn't ask when she woke him before leaving. She just kissed him gently on the mouth and told him to lock up when he left.

"You know where the key is," she said with a little smile that he returned with a lazy smirk.

She saw him later in the morning, when he limped in through the clinic entrance. She watched him over a patient's chart while he signed in at the nurse's station. He glanced up at her when he set the pen down. She waited to see what he would do and admitted she was a bit surprised when he approached her; after the first night, he'd avoided her for the day.

"I don't think I can do clinic hours today," he asserted as if nothing had changed between them. "I think I sprained something last night. Hot sex. _Really hot_, energetic sex. She kept me _up_ all night. If you know what I mean."

For a moment, she wasn't sure how to respond. Was he being flippant? She didn't think so. Was he about to tell everyone within hearing range that he had slept with her? She didn't think he'd do that because it would cheapen what they'd shared and it hadn't been just sex, for either of them.

Which meant he was being himself, the way the hospital staff expected him to be. So she responded the way she normally would, rolling her eyes and reaching for a new patient chart then pushing it against his chest.

"Have fun," she snarked then walked off, but not before catching the glimmer of knowing amusement in his gaze.


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

He stared across his office, seeing but not seeing the symptoms listed on his whiteboard. His feet were propped on the ottoman as he leaned back in his Eames chair, thinking about the case and about the gorgeous and feisty brunette whose office was on the ground floor. The _really_ hot brunette who'd woken him before sunrise with a request for sex.

It had been a great way to begin the day. Yesterday had been great, too. The time away from Princeton had _advanced_ things in ways he hadn't expected. The invitation to stay at her home last night had also been unexpected.

He wasn't sure what to think of how quickly things had changed between him and the long-time object of his desire and his professional ally and sometimes adversary. He understood her to a degree, but he often didn't know what to make of her. He was still nagged by the question of _Why me? _but he wasn't ungrateful.

He'd rolled the dice when he'd approached her in the clinic with his usual obnoxious demeanor and crude flair. He'd spent much of the morning trying to figure out what to say to her when he saw her. He could have crowed and probably would have had things started under different circumstances.

Despite his harassing her at every opportunity, doing things to embarrass and rile her, he did respect her and he knew her job was important and that her reputation was important for her to be able to do it. He'd play. He'd push. But he wouldn't do that to her, not now. So he'd played today and she'd played along.

They needed to talk and she would press the issue at some point, but he intended to avoid the discussion as long as possible. He liked things as they were, just them knowing, just letting things be what they would be. He was not unaware of how easily they could hurt one another by doing or saying the wrong thing — both of which he was prone to do. Sometimes he did it on purpose. Sometimes it just happened. Which is why he feared setting expectations that could paralyze them both or at least have them walking on eggshells with each other.

He just wanted to enjoy her, being with her, and _not_ screw it all up. This was a good thing. He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve it but he liked it and he didn't want to lose it.

His eyes flickered to the left and tracked a familiar figure through the blinds and gaps between the shelves littered with books and medical collectibles.

He didn't smile when she entered because she wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning and there were no histrionics but from the somewhat frenetic way she was walking and other body language, he'd say she was at least mildly frustrated.

He surmised it was either the board meeting, some interdepartmental squabble, disgruntled nursing staff, a pushy donor. Or it was something he'd done — but he had no idea what that would be. He'd been on his best behavior today — except for harassing his team.

If it wasn't one of those things, then it was personal. She'd possibly had contact with her mother or sister, or it was related to recent events or…

Fear emerged at the possibility it might also be related to him personally. But it was largely quelled when she came straight over and sat on the ottoman. He moved his feet to the side as she patted him gently and studied her as she sat ramrod straight as she made sure her skirt was straight then her hair.

_Definitely personal_, he thought when her blue eyes finally met his.

"Have you talked to Wilson?"

"About _this_?" he asked, his voice low and soft.

She nodded and he gave a single shake of his head.

"Good secret keeper, remember?"

Not even the slightest upturn of her mouth. She was really worked up, more than her exterior would indicate. Her eyes were another story.

"Inquisition?"

"He followed me to my office after the board meeting," she said. "He wanted to know how I was doing and if you and I were 'okay'."

House frowned. He'd caught lunch with his best friend and Wilson hadn't asked a single question. There was no way he could have resisted that if he knew what'd happened, or even guessed that something had.

"He doesn't know," he said definitively and told her why.

She looked relieved at his answer but only partially so. She sighed and leaned forward to prop her elbows on her knees. She clasped her hands and rested her chin atop her knuckles. She looked at him with a sadness he hadn't seen in days.

"I can't stand the looks," she confessed quietly.

_Not Wilson._

"Taking yesterday off may have triggered those," he said. No one had looked at her like that before, at least not where she could see. He felt the need to apologize and started to do so, but she shook her head before he could say a word.

"I don't regret that," she said.

Her breathy tone and the earnestness behind it backed up her words. He glanced briefly away from her because the way she was looking at him was stirring feelings that he was not comfortable expressing publicly. He wasn't ready to expose that part of himself to just anyone who happened by. A part of him didn't know if he ever would and considered that would be unfair to her.

"Do you regret it?" she asked before he could look at her again, making him realize he'd frowned again, after mention of an important subject.

He gave another little shake of his head to assure her and to push away the thought. He wasn't ready for that conversation, even with himself. His answer earned a little smile from her, the one he'd tried to elicit a few minutes before. He liked seeing it, and it hammered home to him that he was completely in love with her, and that he had been for some time.

A shyness enveloped him. It was a trait he did not like in himself, how it exposed the deeper things he felt, but it was a part of him he could not excise. Wilson would say it was a sign of his still-intact humanity. He wasn't sure what she thought about it, but he admitted to himself that he didn't mind it so much that she was seeing it now.

Things had definitely changed for them and he was curious as to how it would evolve. And he was also terrified. He saw a wisp of that fear lurking behind the affection she was projecting.

He watched her hide it all away behind that fearsome professional demeanor and he hardened himself when his team burst into the room and began announcing new symptoms.

She rose at their entrance and fired a familiar parting shot — for effect.

"Don't forget you still owe me nearly a decade of backlogged clinic hours," she said, giving him the tiniest of smirks since her back was to the others.

He responded with his typical mixture of sarcasm and defiance.

"Can't right now," he said, picking up his cane by the handle which lay against his hip. He pointed to the whiteboard with it. "Dying patient."

She rolled her eyes then breezed out of the room with her armor back in place. He admired her for that and tried not to let it show too much as he pushed himself up from the chair and watched her go, both out of habit and because he wanted to.

Likely thinking he was simply leering, as usual, his team made no remarks when he turned his attention to them. Relieved, he listened as they provided him new information to factor into his latest puzzle.

He ambled over and wrote the pertinent symptoms on the whiteboard.


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 15**

It was near midnight and she was still in her office.

The light caught his eye when he emerged from the elevator. He was on his way home after having successfully solved his medical riddle. Curious and admittedly smitten, he adjusted his course and slipped quietly into the little area where her assistant usually sat. He watched her from the shadows there, through the wooden blinds. The room was cozy for an office, the tones warm and inviting.

_Like her. Or the _her_ she hides._

Within the soft, ambient light from her desk lamp, she was signing her name on some report. It could be for medical supplies or cleaning supplies or a performance review. She did so many things that would have him flinging himself from the roof in boredom, but she found a purpose in them. If they bored her, she never showed it, not even now, when she undoubtedly believed no one was looking.

Looking closer at her face, he noted that she was tired. They had not slept much last night and she was roughly seventeen hours into a work day that should have ended at five o'clock in his opinion. Medically speaking, no one should put in the hours she did, a fact that bothered him because he put in so little and fought her on that. But that didn't mean he was going to stop. His leaving, despite popular opinion, wasn't due to laziness but a concession to the pain that often built throughout the day. It sapped his energy and soured his mood. The Vicodin was the only thing that kept him going sometimes.

At the thought of the drug, he reached into his jacket pocket and touched the bottle with the reflexive intent of taking a pair of the white pills, not because he needed them at the moment — he'd taken two upstairs — but because they were there, and he was an addict.

He released the bottle, resisting the urge, and debated taking her instead. It wasn't much of a debate. He wanted her. He'd wanted her for years and now that he'd had her, been with her, he wanted more. He just didn't know if she'd want him right now.

He watched her set her pen aside and close up the folder before she shut her eyes and arched her back, stretching her undoubtedly stiff spine and muscles. He wondered how long she'd been sitting there. He wondered if she just wanted to go home and sleep. It would probably be for the best even if he'd like to see her arching her back and shutting her eyes for an entirely different reason.

_She would benefit from a long, hot, soaking bath … so would I. _

His leg was plagued by a dull, throbbing ache that had grown and seeped, to a degree, into the rest of his exhausted body. The only thing about him that wasn't tired was his mind and a certain part of his anatomy that was interested in anything but a bath.

_Unless it's with her._

He smiled to himself at the thought. He'd already shared two baths with her in a matter of days and his body and mind were already contemplating a third.

_But will she?_

There was only one way to find out and he went in search of the answer, opening her door quietly.

"Prescription for patient Lisa Cuddy," he said, announcing his arrival. "A decent meal, a hot bath by candlelight, a glass of wine to be consumed while taking said bath, which is to be followed by a night of uninterrupted sleep."

Switching his cane to his other hand, he kept his eyes on her as he shut the door behind him. Her expression was soft and bemused but he moved only a few feet into the room before stopping. It was a psychological tactic meant to entice her to close the distance to him; he knew if he could get her away from her desk then he could get her to ignore her work ethic for the rest of the night.

"You going to actually write that out?" she asked.

_With my tongue, wherever you want it_, he answered inwardly and imagined how hot it would make her to hear him say it. If he was closer, he would whisper it in her ear. Instead, he hooked the curve of his cane over his forearm then slipped his knapsack off his shoulder and made as if he was going to dig out his prescription pad.

That earned him a brighter smile and he felt encouraged when she slowly pushed her chair back and rose. His eyes roved over what he could see of her as she braced her hand on the desktop while she flipped over and toed into her shoes.

She faced him then, still behind her desk but clearly on the cusp of surrender.

"Do you intend to make sure the patient adheres to the prescription?"

"Does the patient require supervision?"

Her smile was wily. "Maybe."

She was playing and it excited him — and signaled her surrender.

"I could send over Taub or Kutner. Or Thirteen. She's less annoying than Foreman and way prettier to look at, and hot."

He loved that she didn't show an inkling of jealousy at the mention of Thirteen. She knew he was an uncouth ass and such comments were to be expected in their game.

"I'd prefer my prescribing physician," she said, then added softly, "If he's available."

He gave her a rare smile and asked a question.

"So, am I making the house call or are you?"

Her smile brightened. "I'd say your name, in conjunction with your profession, doubles the chances it's you."

He loved that.

"Then there's your insistence on waking up before the sun," he countered. "My prescription would be less effective if you had to get up even earlier."

"Yes," she said and her voice had gone soft again.

He jerked his chin gently in her direction and matched her tone.

"Get your stuff."


	16. Chapter 16

Thank you to all those reading and for you kind comments. I'm thrilled that you're loving the story so much. Enjoy this part. It's along one:

* * *

**Part 16**

He was hiding out.

He had a variety of reasons for why he usually did it — to avoid work in general, to catch a nap after a sleepless night, or to frustrate his team or Cuddy. Today, he was doing it for a different reason: He felt good.

It was rare that he felt that and he wanted to experience it without the distraction of work or people. He had considered blowing off the workday entirely, hopping on his bike and riding all day, but he'd found himself at work anyway because _she_ was here. And he couldn't convince himself to leave now that he was. That didn't mean he wanted to get wrangled into actually doing his job, though. That's why after he dispatched his team to cover his clinic hours, he'd sought out the last place he thought anyone would look for him: the hospital chapel.

He was stretched out across the third pew, staring up at the ceiling, occasionally twirling his cane. A few people had come and gone, giving him quizzical then chiding looks before leaving the dim, quiet room to him again. He was alone now and his thoughts were on why he felt so good.

For one thing, his leg wasn't hurting too bad. He chalked that up to the lengthy bath with Cuddy last night. It had been relaxing, the water hot enough to elicit a prickling sensation that distracted his brain from the deeper ache in his thigh, eventually easing it almost completely. That had led to a good night's sleep, which was a rarity, too.

He was also happy for the first time in a long time. Even though he wasn't quite sure what to do with it, he liked it. A part of him feared he'd mess it up at any moment or that she'd begin questioning her sanity and backtrack. The rest of him was elated and for once, his elation was greater than his fears. It was a strange reversal to find himself focusing on the positive and resisting the urge to dwell on the potential negatives. He was having more luck than he would have thought and freely admitted she had _everything_ to do with that.

She wasn't questioning what they were doing or pushing to define things. She was just _going with it_, like he was. Being able to just be with her without all the entanglements of expectations was like winning the lottery. She was beautiful, sexy, smart, and he loved her.

"I love her," he whispered into the empty room. He smiled at hearing the words, even though they were barely louder than a breath. He hadn't said them to her yet. He didn't know when he would, or if he would — it would raise the specter of expectations — but he couldn't deny a certain curiosity about how she would react to hearing the words. Or how he would react were he to hear them from her.

It had been a long time since he'd said them — but he always meant them when he did — and even longer since someone had said them to him and he believed them. He'd believe Cuddy if she did.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the morning and how he'd actually risen early and joined her in the shower. His leg precluded sex on slippery surfaces, but there'd been lots of kissing and touching. They'd gotten each other off amidst the jets of hot water. She'd smiled at him after, sultry and secretive, and it had made him feel all kinds of things.

_Good things._

Twirling his cane, he recalled the softness of the kiss she'd given him while he lay in her bed, skin and hair damp, getting her bedding wet. He'd wanted her again after that, but she'd slipped away from him before he could do anything more than skim his fingers along her cheek.

"Thank you," she'd whispered then eased out of the room, leaving him to sleep a while longer even though she was the one who should have slept in.

He'd smiled selfishly at the thought then rolled onto his stomach and snagged her pillow to him. He'd pressed his face into the softness and breathed in her scent then turned his head and drew in air that carried the lingering traces of her soft perfume. He'd dozed a bit but he'd been too aware of her absence to stay for long. So he'd gone to his place, dressed, and come to work, just to be near her.

Now he was hiding from her and counting the minutes until she decided to come find him. She would eventually. One of his ducklings would undoubtedly grouse and word would reach her, directly, or through Nurse Jeffrey or some other idiot he'd vexed — there were a lot — and she'd come looking.

She'd page him first, numerous times. Then she'd call and leave voicemails, possibly threatening to fire him, et al. Then she'd start looking herself, stalking the halls with her usual grace but a predatory look in her eyes. People would steer clear. They would know she was coming for him, wherever he might be. If anyone had seen him, they'd point her in his direction; he had no allies amongst the staff beyond his team and Wilson, and her. She'd check his usual haunts, ticking them off her mental list one at a time until she was on the verge of exasperation.

Then she'd figure it out and smile, just a little, even if only to herself, when she realized the irony of him, an atheist named House, taking refuge in a symbolic _house_ of prayer. It was just the sort of thing he'd do. Amused and slightly annoyed at not having thought of it sooner, she'd tuck her tongue into her cheek for just a moment then she'd make a beeline for him.

He just had to wait. So he waited, twirling his cane and humming a composition that had been taking shape at the periphery of his mind since that first night with her. A few more people came and went but he ignored them until he heard the all-too familiar click of heels on tile in the hall. He knew her gait in all its forms, could tell her mood by how fast or slow, hard or light her steps were. She was currently exactly what he'd predicted she'd be: amused and annoyed.

The thick red carpet of the chapel's floor muted her footsteps after she entered the sanctum. He off the counted the seconds it took her to her to say his name — she always said his name.

"House."

_Mild irritation. _

"Yes, Mistress," he said, opening his eyes.

She set her hands on her to-die-for hips and tried to scowl at him but she gave up when he smiled at her. Her features melted into softness even as she scolded him for shirking his responsibilities.

He didn't say anything in response, offering neither jibe, nor explanation, nor an apology. He just looked at her until she entered the row where he lay. When she tapped his good leg, he sat up and made room for her beside him. She sat closer than she would have in the past, but still a respectable distance should someone disturb them.

He watched her look around the room. When she met his gaze again, she raised an eyebrow.

"The chapel?"

He cocked his head, declared, "I was feeling heretical."

"You knew it was the last place I'd look," she called him out with a smile.

"Was it?" he asked, his eyes drawn to mouth when she confessed, "Yes."

There was a pause where she searched his eyes, then asked softly, "Are you okay?"

He looked at her as she'd looked at him, trying to see if there was more behind the question than concern for him — insecurity or fear — but there wasn't. He gave a little nod and matched her tone.

"Yeah," he said then confessed to her that his pain was significantly less than normal, adding, "I don't have many good days."

She touched his forearm and slowly slid her hand down to his, where it rested in his lap. She gave him a look of compassion, laced with a mixture of happiness and guilt.

She always felt guilty when the subject of his leg or pain came up in conversation or was the proverbial 800-pound gorilla in the room. He had never once blamed her and still didn't but she carried the weight of it anyway. He doubted there was anything he could do or say that would entirely disabuse her of the notion that she was somehow culpable beyond having done her job as his doctor. He wasn't good at reassuring people with words. But he knew how to comfort _her_ with action.

He started by returning the gentle grip of her hand. Then he leaned toward her, eyes flickering from hers down to her mouth. She responded just like he wanted her to, tilting her head to accommodate the kiss he gave her moments later.

It was a sweet, gentle pressing of his lips to hers and she sighed and trembled. He declared victory when he eased back and saw no sign of the guilt when she opened her eyes. It prompted him to kiss her again, the fingers of his free hand coming up to brush along her jaw as his mouth moved soft and slow with hers.

When he withdrew again, he noted the emerging smile on her lips and mirrored it. He then cocked his head and glanced up at the ceiling.

"Waiting for lightning to strike?" she asked, just as he'd hoped.

"Can't be too careful," he said, cutting his eyes back to her.

He noted the absence of her smile and that she was now looking at the altar. Sadness had inexplicably taken hold of her in the seconds he'd looked away. Her brow was furrowed with it and her eyes swam with unshed tears. Not knowing what to say or if he should say anything, he gently squeezed her fingers to reassure her that he was with her, inept as he was.

"I came here and prayed after she changed her mind," she said after a few moments. "I prayed she would change it again."

He considered saying something snarky about the foolishness of praying to a higher being who, if it existed, was little more than a puppet master, but he refrained. He chose to not mock the heartbreak that had driven her to this little nook of her hospital to petition a god he wasn't sure she believed in. He _had_ mocked her that day, in the hours preceding the choice that had shattered her dreams of motherhood, but he couldn't now. She was in pain, reliving a moment in her mind that had only reinforced the futility of her efforts to have the child she desperately wanted.

The cruelty of the situation only reinforced his lack of belief, just as every second of cruelty he'd experienced at the hands of his father had eradicated the nascent faith he'd possessed as a boy.

How could there be an all-powerful, benevolent, and loving god when a father could torture his son without repercussion, and a generous, loving woman be denied a child at every turn?

Breaking his gaze away from her, he looked around the chapel. It was a room with four walls, a set of doors, and some fancy, symbolic furnishings, nothing more. It felt empty and hollow, devoid of any semblance of grace or peace, save the quiet. He felt none of the comfort it was supposed to provide and from the look Cuddy now wore, she didn't feel it either.

Eyes on her, he asked a question.

"Have you had lunch?"

She shook her head, her eyes still on the useless altar. He drew her attention to him with a stronger squeeze of his hand. Her eyes bared her pain to him and he felt the need to heal it the one way he knew how.

"Meet me at my place in twenty," he said. It wasn't a command but an invitation, spoken softly.

She accepted by way of a little nod then leaned in and pressed her mouth lightly to his. She lingered just a moment before she rose and left. He heard the door close softly behind her and looked around the room once more. It seemed even more hollow now.

Frowning, he tapped the rubber tip of his cane on the carpet three times then pushed himself up and departed. It would take him ten minutes to get his bag and reach his bike.


	17. Chapter 17

**Part 17**

She stepped into his apartment with visible relief and the same emotion enveloped him at the sight of her.

He'd feared he'd missed her thanks to _St. Wilson. _He'd just stepped into the elevator, on his way out, when the well-meaning but annoyingly nosy oncologist ambushed him.

"What did you do?"

The familiar accusatory tone had come from behind him. He'd known it was about Cuddy without Wilson ever saying her name.

"Why do you always assume I did something?" House had replied, scowling as he turned and used his cane to push the ground floor button on the panel.

"Cuddy just left for lunch, which she hardly ever does, and she clearly _wasn't_ herself, and this happened _after_ she went looking for you. And because you're _always_ doing _something_," Wilson had countered as the doors closed.

All of it was true, but House hadn't upset her, even if he had been the reason for her leaving. But Wilson hadn't needed to know those things and House didn't want him to know them. So he'd let his friend fuss and believe whatever he wanted and answered in expected fashion, making his remarks caustic and flippant.

"Well, I didn't do anything. In fact, I've done _nothing_ all day," House had countered, looking up at the lighted floor numbers above the door. "But I'm glad to know my bestest buddy jumped right to me as the reason for her being upset. It couldn't possibly be because a pimply, short-sighted teen-age mom played takesie-backsies with the child she was going to adopt."

"You're an insensitive ass," Wilson had replied in a huff then went silent for all of thirty seconds before asking accusingly, "Don't you care at all?"

"I care that I'm getting out of here," House had said in response then adjusted his knapsack on his shoulder as the elevator dinged. It wasn't until the doors had opened and House had limped out into the clinic admit area that Wilson finally asked him where he was going. He hadn't looked back when he replied.

"When the cat's away, the mouse will play."

_But this isn't playtime_, House observed as Cuddy moved toward him now, dropping her purse just inside the room. He closed the distance to her, slipping one hand around her waist while he shut and locked the door with the other.

Neither of them spoke. He just kissed her softly and carefully disrobed her as they made their way to his bedroom. They stopped here and there along the way to cast away a garment, kiss deeper, caress, and catch their breath.

He pulled her under him once they were naked and in his bed. He penetrated her slowly as he held her gaze. She moved with him and didn't look away. The intimacy of the optical connection fully engaged his heart. He made love to her _with love_. He touched her with it, his fingers caressing her cheek and neck then skimming across her shoulder before he touched her face again.

He caught the single tear that had slipped free with the pad of his thumb. Her breath hitched. He whispered her name then replaced his thumb with his lips and kissed away the wetness.

She shuddered beneath him, but not in pleasure. The sob was silent but the emotions behind it were deafening. He responded to them with all the gentleness he could summon. He nuzzled her and whispered softly in her ear words he wished someone would have told him when he was a boy.

"There's no shame in crying."

He felt the break of the metaphorical dam she'd erected to protect herself from the full brunt of her loss. She had been avoiding the pain, expressing it in largely manageable increments while holding the barrier in place by sheer force of will the rest of the time.

He had helped with that and now he was helping with this. He stilled as she cried quietly. He held her, palming the back of her head when she turned her face into his neck. His other arm snaked under her to hold her impossibly closer.

She needed a safe place and he knew he'd become that for her. He'd put himself in that position by staying with her that first night when she asked. He didn't regret that or a moment he'd spent with her since, even now, as he provided her comfort in a way he'd never done for anyone else in his life. He felt the need to do it, which surprised him, as did the lack of awkwardness and the fact that she would want this brand of comfort from him at all. So far it had been mostly sex, which was fine with him; he could do sex. But holding her and letting her cry while his erection slowly ebbed inside her … he was in uncharted territory.

He didn't like to feel other people's pain — his own was enough — but he'd opened himself up to hers, and was feeling it. Strangely, his own had faded into the background and his connection to hers wasn't overwhelming. If anything he found himself strengthened by it in a way he didn't wholly understand. It wasn't perverse. He took no pleasure in it but he did feel a sense of purpose out of it and not the need to run.

_This means something._

When he felt her tension lessen and tears taper, he eased back and looked at her. Cool air hit his neck when he did, making him keenly aware of the wetness on his skin, and that it wasn't just tears. Normally he would fuss — runny noses were one of things he hated about clinic — but he surprised himself, again, by not pointing it out to her.

She did, however, apologizing before looking around for his shirt, or hers, or something to clean him up with. The reaction was a compulsion as much as a courtesy.

"Hey," he said softly, stopping her.

She looked at him. He noted tears still clung to her lashes and that her eyes were red-rimmed, but her pain seemed to have lessened. Her face was a mess though, much like his neck. He thought her beautiful anyway but knew her next impulse would be to clean herself up.

"Be right back," he said and carefully extracted himself from her. He hobbled to the bathroom, taking a moment to clean himself and wrap a towel around his waist before bringing her a wet cloth and a dry hand towel.

She accepted both with a look of gratitude and a measure of self-consciousness. He sat on the edge of the bed as she sat up. He looked away while she cleaned her face, figuring she probably didn't want an audience. Her efforts would be enough for her, for now, but he knew she'd want a shower soon.

When she finished, he took the cloths from her and returned them to the bathroom, tossing them in the hamper. She was still sitting up when he returned but had moved under the covers. She was holding the sheet up to her chest.

"I'm sorry," she apologized to him again, looking even more self-conscious.

"All part of the service," he said, trying to lighten the mood. He didn't think it was very effective because she continued to look at him as if she'd done something wrong. He didn't know how to assure her she hadn't, so he went for nonchalance, tossing the towel aside and arranging the pillows against the headboard.

He sat beside her then stretched his arm out, inviting her closer. It was moment before she accepted but he felt a rush of _something_ when she sidled closer. He curled his hand around her thin shoulder when she rested her head on his. He nuzzled her gently before speaking softly.

"Cut yourself some slack, Cuddy." He kissed her hairline. "It's okay to grieve."

"I ruined the mood," she said and it was a deflection. She hadn't ruined the mood. Her grief had been the mood since the chapel.

"Do you really believe this was about sex?" he asked, nuzzling her again.

"No," she said, her voice barely audible.

"No," he reassured her, circling the pad of his thumb against her shoulder.

"I have to go back," she sighed then and he found himself echoing the sound, only quieter.

"I can't," he said, prompting her to shift so she could look at him.

"Why?" It wasn't his boss asking, but he knew she lurked behind those blue-gray eyes.

"Wilson," he explained. "He saw you leave and ambushed me on my way out. I implied I wouldn't be back. If we both go back…"

"… he'll get suspicious," she finished for him then she sighed again. "He means well but I'm not ready for that."

He wasn't either and he did understand that his friend meant well. But he also meddled and was plugged into the hospital gossip mill.

"Who would be?"

She smiled a little. "I'll have to reprimand you."

He smirked when he replied.

"That's nothing new."


	18. Chapter 18

**Part 18**

She hadn't heard from him since she left his apartment earlier in the afternoon. She'd told him not to come in, but called and scolded him from the clinic admit desk, where others could hear.

Her verbal evisceration would have had any other member of her staff cringing — not that she ever had to take them on the way she did him — but he hadn't batted an eye because she'd warned him it was coming. She'd fought very hard to not smile when he asked inappropriate questions every now and then during the call. He was a first-rate ass, which ultimately helped her pull it off.

She loved him for that. She loved him for what he'd done for her in her too-brief lunch hour.

Breaking down after days of repressing her grief had been cathartic. She had feared doing it alone and yet had been resigned to that, like everything else in her life, until he'd shown up on her doorstep just four nights ago.

His invitation to meet him at his place this afternoon had been unexpected but welcome. She hadn't intended to indulge her emotions, but they had overwhelmed her in the face of his tenderness. He'd let her fall apart, held her through it, and offered encouragement. She had expected none of those things either, which made them all the more special.

Wilson, bless him, had to come see her after she'd returned to the hospital, offering his own brand of encouragement. He'd expressed his concern for her, sweetly, and she'd told him she was managing the fallout of the failed adoption. She hadn't told him how she was managing it, though, wanting to keep what was between her and House, between her and House. Not that Wilson believe his friend capable of providing her comfort.

Wilson knew House well, but like her and everyone else, there were parts of him that he didn't know. Maybe it was vanity, but she thought she might have a shot at getting to know some of those. She had already discovered at least two: He was still capable of empathy, and love. She had frequently wondered just how disconnected he'd become over the years and she had found out and seen plenty proof in the last several days.

_Everyone underestimates him. _

She knew she had and wondered how much damage they'd all done to him by treating him as if he had lost his humanity, even partially. He was a lot of bluster, she'd always known that, but she hadn't realized how much of that bluster was a shield for the man she had been sharing her body and heart with.

_He must feel desperately alone, even when surrounded by people._

That thought troubled her because she knew she had done little over the years to make him feel less alone — not that he'd have let her do anything to help. He had sealed himself off after the infarction, first from Stacy, then from everyone else. Even Wilson was only allowed so far inside that armor.

Cuddy thought she was probably the first person in a very long time that House had willingly let close, was actively keeping close, and might want to be even closer. The thought of that made her heart flutter because she was seriously entertaining that herself. But she didn't think now was the time to make that decision, for either of them.

It surprised her, but she was content, for now, to just be with him. She wasn't feeling the need to make plans or organize things, which was her baseline. Of course, she was wise enough to know she couldn't "plan" him. She could barely do it on a professional level; on a personal level, she felt it would be a mistake. Which is why she believed that whatever things would be, they needed to decide together, when the time was right.

Glancing at the clock on her desk, she noted it was nearly seven. She glanced at her inbox and sighed heavily at the stack of files waiting for her review. It was larger than she'd like and actually larger than she'd expected considering she'd been working a solid three hours to clear them out.

Much as she liked her job, she wished she could hand them off to someone else tonight. She was running out of steam, not having slept long enough last night despite having slept well. She was also growing tired of her chair; it was a good one, but not so good as to make hours on end comfortable.

In need of a break from the paperwork, she actually welcomed the sound of an email arriving. She glanced over at the screen beside her and smiled. The sender's name was new — The Philosopher Jagger — telling her exactly who it was. And if that hadn't been a tip off, the contents of the email surely were:

_What are you wearing?_

Only House. Feeling that spark of playfulness only he could elicit in her, she replied: Clothing.

Like an idiot, she turned completely away from her paperwork and waited for his response. It came quickly.

_Naked is the new black._

She rolled her eyes and typed: Not at work, it's not.

The computer dinged again: _Go home. Rest. Doctor's orders._

His prescription sounded good and was exactly what she needed. But she needed to finish her work, too.

She replied: If I don't do it now, it'll just be a bigger pile tomorrow.

_Worry about tomorrow tomorrow … and that wasn't a stutter._

She sighed again and typed once more: It's not that easy.

_Yes, it is. Close up your computer. Put your stuff in your briefcase. Shut off the lamp. Pick up your keys and go._

The steps were easy enough and in the quiet darkness of her office, she confessed: I want to.

His response: _Then do it. And don't feel guilty about it._

Cuddy knew _not_ feeling guilty would be a problem for her, which was no doubt why he'd mentioned it. He knew her too well and though she hadn't appreciated it in the past, she found she rather liked it right now. Which was enough to make the choice for her.

She clicked the reply button and typed: I'll be at your place shortly.

Expecting that to be the end of the conversation, she was surprised when her computer announced the arrival of another email less than a minute after she sent her last. She paused in gathering up her things and looked over at the screen.

_Make it your place. Chinese on the way. Wine chilling._

She smiled as she looked at the words. She should have known.


	19. Chapter 19

**Part 19**

Setting her pen aside, she picked up her glass from the hearth and took a sip of her wine. She looked past the rim, across her living room, at the man sleeping on her couch.

She found herself smiling at the sight of him in spite of the fact he'd been irritated with her earlier, when she'd decided to work on some files she'd brought home.

He'd found the folders in her briefcase when she'd gone to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable. When she'd returned, he'd scowled at her and unceremoniously dropped the stack onto her dining table. They'd landed with a loud _thwack_. In response, she'd scowled and chided him for snooping in her things, but he'd blown her off.

"You didn't squawk when I broke into your house, but you'll bitch at me for opening your briefcase" had been his reply. He'd raised an eyebrow at her when he said it, telling her that despite his surly demeanor, his irritation was half-hearted. He'd undoubtedly known she wouldn't be able to resist bringing at least a few of the files home, just in case.

She could have protested, but she hadn't. She hadn't been interested in conflict after such an off-kilter day. She'd just wanted to enjoy a quiet meal then, if she felt like it, maybe work a little before bed.

She'd had those things and he hadn't fussed when she picked up three of the folders and headed toward where she now sat. He'd just made himself at home on the couch, stretching out and flipping on the TV. He'd channel-surfed until he found some nature show. He'd turned down the volume and drifted off soon after.

As she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, she wondered why he hadn't just gone home. He certainly could have. She would have suspected sex was the reason if it hadn't been for the way he'd been with her from the start, and especially not after this afternoon.

_"Do you really believe this was about sex?"_

He'd asked her that and agreed with her that it wasn't. If that was all he wanted then he had other sources, even if she didn't like to think about that. So it wasn't sex. And it wasn't because she was upset, or that she'd asked him to stay. He'd just stayed and she was honestly happy that he had.

_I have no idea where we're going, but I do like where we are._

Setting her wine aside, she closed the folder in her lap and put it next to her open briefcase. She moved the pen over with it then got to her feet.

The fading embers in the fireplace sizzled softly behind her as she moved toward him. Her eyes took in his frame, which stretched from one of the couch to the other. He wore one of his designer t-shirts, white with unevenly faded flourishes and words. His left arm was bent, forearm and hand resting on his torso. The right was bent, too, but that hand was beneath his head. Except for the slight furrowing of his brow, he looked comfortable. And sexy.

She was ready for bed.

Reaching his side, she bent and kissed his forehead while she threaded her fingers into his hair. He stirred and she briefly met his gaze before kissing his mouth. Her other hand touched his chest as she did. She lingered just a moment, eyes on his as she took the time to caress him before slowly easing away.

He watched her move away, looking half-asleep and yet wholly awake. She smiled warmly at him before she went over and secured the fire. She left her other things where they were and headed to her bedroom, trusting him to follow.

He did, easing up behind her as she stripped off her top and set it on the bed. His fingers grazed her skin as he found the hooks on the back of her bra and deftly released them. She trembled inwardly at feeling the heat of his body against her bare back and hearing his soft breaths as he helped her ease the now loose straps along her arms.

Gooseflesh rose then dissipated when he skimmed his touch back up to her shoulders then down her back. He followed the path of her hands as she pushed her yoga pants from her hips. She paused when he caressed her ass, her breath hitching when he lifted them slightly then again when his hands smoothed down along her thighs to join hers.

She trembled yet again as together, they pushed the material down further and let it drop to the floor. The eroticism of the moment had her her insides fluttering wildly and heat flaring through her sex.

She let her arms hang down at her sides and leaned back against him when he continued to touch her. He eased his hands around her waist and slid them up to cup her breasts. She shut her eyes and let out a thready breath that contained a hint of his name.

He brought his head next to hers, whispered softly against her ear. "Okay?"

"Yes."

At her assent, he kissed her ear, then her neck, then her shoulder. His fingers deftly brought her nipples into sharp relief and stroked the soft flesh surrounding them. He palmed her and pulled her back firmly against him and held her close. She reached back for him, her hands finding his hips and holding him as he held her.

Her heart raced away as they just stood, bodies close. He was still clothed but it didn't really matter at the moment. She was feeling so many different, good things and she just wanted to take a moment and experience them. He seemed inclined to do the same, so she didn't move until he did, and then it was only to shift her head against his chest and tilt up toward him. His hand came up and cupped her jaw and angled her comfortably for a kiss.

She quivered at the breathy grazing of his lips against hers and melted into the soft caress of his mouth when he made full contact. It was a slow, sensual kiss that made her ache deep in her sex. As if he knew it, his hand left her breast and cupped her. She let out a soft moan and pushed into his palm. He held her tighter and she rocked her body into his grip, the friction and pressure sending her desire spiraling.

He released her mouth and she rested her head back on his shoulder. He stroked her throat and down along her sternum to her flank. There, his fingers splayed and guided her into finding her pleasure. She accepted what he was offering, and let out a soft cry when she orgasmed in his hand.

In the way, he didn't say a word. She heard only his breaths near her ear, coming in warm puffs that stirred her hair and grazed her skin as her awareness returned.

She turned in his arms then and folded a hand behind his head. She gazed up into his eyes as she drew him down to her. The blue pools were filled with wonder and want. The intensity of his desirous gaze was breathtaking to the point her breath actually fled when their mouths touched again.

His hands moved over her back as they kissed. Before he could embrace her, she eased from him and pulled the hem of his t-shirt from his jeans. He took it from her and stripped it off. She unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans. She pushed them down and knelt before him. He let her undress him, untying his shoes and removing them one at a time, then his socks and jeans.

After divesting him of his underwear, she caressed her way up his legs. He shuddered when her fingers grazed the scar on his right thigh. She looked up to see his eyes closed and his jaw clenched. Intense emotion etched his features and he was breathing harder as if holding those feelings in.

She could only imagine…

On impulse, she kissed the gnarled, deep divot in his flesh, her heart aching for the pain he endured daily. She'd had a part in it, even if he didn't blame her, and it pained her. His fingers touched her shoulders and she looked to see him holding his hands out to her, palms up. She took them and let him guide her to her feet.

He looked at her with such gentleness before he kissed her. It was an affectionate kiss, breathy and lingering. She eased her hands between them and took his erection in hand. She stroked him lovingly, hand over hand, making him ever harder. He trembled and pressed his brow to hers. He cradled her face, thumbs stroking along the ridge of her cheekbones, falling into her rhythm. It was such a simple thing really and yet she felt the caress in her heart and other parts of her.

Tilting her head, she craned and kissed him again and whispered her paramount desire.

"I want you inside me."


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 20**

She felt a rush of happiness at the sight of him. She couldn't help it, not after last night. She had no words to describe the sex they'd had; even lovemaking was woefully inadequate to encompass the whole of it.

All she really knew was that she'd _never_ in her life felt so connected to someone, in any capacity, even a lover. That such a deep connection was formed with him, a man who held everyone at a distance, ferociously, made it all the more significant.

He had been so open with her and reverent, not at all like she'd expected from him, even after a week of sexual encounters. She felt like she'd seen him for the first time, all of him, and found him beautiful, sensual, and giving, and deeply wounded beyond his body. She'd reacted instinctively to that, giving in kind and striving to ease his pain as he continued to ease her own.

She was in love with him, but more importantly, she _loved_ him and last night had made her realize that _that_ was not a recent development — for either of them. When it happened for them, she didn't know but she couldn't deny that it had.

Nor could she deny that she wanted to join him in the cafeteria booth right now. If Wilson weren't with him, she would but by unspoken agreement, they were keeping their friend, along with everyone else, in the dark.

They wouldn't understand, not considering the history of their professional standoffs and his general assness. The way he talked to her and about her was a front, a way to engage her like a little boy on the playground pulling the pigtails of the girl he liked. She thought it sweet in some perverse way, which told her exactly how much she did love the crass idiot because she'd taken little of it to heart.

Her heart was racing at the moment. He was looking at her while Wilson was talking to one of the nurses sitting across the aisle at a table.

He didn't smile. He didn't wink. He didn't say anything. He just met her gaze and held it until Wilson looked back at him. She chose to move along then, not wanting to risk exposing them.

She didn't avoid him later, though, when she saw him duck into the stairwell that led to the roof. She followed him up after she finished giving orders to the nurses at the desk. Considering his penchant for avoiding work, she knew no one would make anything of her following him. They would think she was going to wrangle him to actually do his job.

She found him leaned back against the brick railing, his cane laid across the top. His eyes were on hers the instant she came through the door and they didn't reflect an ounce of surprise. He'd known she was watching him and that she would follow.

Unlike earlier, he looked a little apprehensive, a feeling she understood. They hadn't talked this morning or at all really, about what they were doing and with how things had been last night. She was feeling some butterflies herself, not sure if she should say something, if he would say something, or if they should say anything at all.

She took a deep breath as she approached him, willing her mind to cease the circular thoughts before awkwardness could settle in, for either of them.

"How's your patient?" she asked as she neared him, fearing work was neutral if not always amicable territory.

"Still breathing" was his reply.

He watched her as she moved to a position across from him, leaning back against a similar brick-and-concrete railing that surrounded a piece of equipment — probably an air unit. She crossed her feet at the ankles, trying to strike a casual pose as she continued to talk shop.

"You don't want a brain biopsy yet?"

His eyes flared with amusement. "I'll keep you posted."

"You'd better," she teased.

He gave her a rebellious scowl but it was in jest. There was more behind his eyes than the usual piss and vinegar or sarcastic playfulness. There was an intimacy, a _knowing_, of her and the changes between them.

"Absolutely," he countered with an incredulous cock of his head.

A soft laugh bubbled up out of her unexpectedly, making him grin — a genuine smile, if a little self-conscious. She was feeling something of the same. She honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd elicited such a sound from her that wasn't scoffing, or something of the sort.

She didn't look away from him, though. Seeing him happy was something special and she didn't want to miss a moment of it.

"It's good to hear you laugh."

The words were said softly, tenderly even and they almost made her blush. She was touched that he'd made the observation. She'd had little to laugh about recently.

"It's good to laugh," she confessed.

They went silent and her thoughts invariably shifted to why she had no cause to laugh. Sadness gripped her and she looked to the roof beneath her feet. It was gray concrete. After a few moments, she heard him move. She looked to see him limping to her, his cane still on the railing behind him. She straightened and peered up at him when he stopped directly in front of her.

"I'm okay," she told him, seeing him looking at her with concern.

One heartbeat, then two, and he was leaning down. She shut her eyes when he pressed his lips to hers gently. Her heart fluttered and she was reminded of the soft kisses he'd given her in the chapel the day before.

She returned the little kiss and welcomed a second. She laid a hand on his cheek and caressed him when he eventually eased away. He had beautiful eyes and she saw his affection swimming there. She saw also his desire to comfort her beyond the kisses, projecting a longing she would have never associated with him before.

"Do you want—"

"Yes," she cut him off, knowing what he was offering and unequivocally wanting it.

"I'll probably be late," he warned her.

She smiled and laid her hand on his chest. "You know where the key is."

That made him smile but the expression faded away into his usual scowl. She wondered why until she heard approach of footsteps. She looked over to see Wilson heading toward them, his coattail flapping.

Trying not to panic or give them away, she patted House in a friendly manner then let her arm drop back down beside her.

"Thank you," she whispered then eased away from him.

Wilson looked at her oddly when she neared him. He asked her if everything was okay. She told him things were fine, that House was offering his condolences about Joy. The subject was touchy enough for him to not ask anything more and she was grateful. Just the mention of the baby by name had caused an ache in her heart.

Wilson glanced at House with what she'd term as approval. She used that as her opportunity to slip away, telling him she had to meet a donor — it had the virtue of being true — and wished him a good afternoon.

He did nothing to stop her and didn't look the slightest bit suspicious. _And he shouldn't_, she thought. He had seen her interact with House both professionally and personally for years and short of finding them in a compromising position — which would include kissing — there was no reason for him to be.

Once she moved past him, she looked back over her shoulder for a moment and saw that House had retrieved the cane and was giving Wilson one of his patented looks of grumpiness.

Smiling, she left them to talk.


	21. Chapter 21

**Part 21**

He had expected she would be in bed when he reached her place, especially since it was just shy of four in the morning on a Saturday.

Instead, he found her standing, arms folded across her chest, in the room that would have been the baby's. The yellow walls and the crib in the corner, which was overflowing with baby stuff, marked it as such. He frowned when she didn't acknowledge his arrival; she had to have heard him come in.

Setting his knapsack in the floor in the hall, he stepped into her personal _torture_ chamber and briefly wondered what she planned to do with the room.

"They're coming to pick up the stuff today," she said softly as he neared. "They were supposed to come earlier in the week but they had to reschedule."

"Donating it?" he asked, stopping beside her.

"Yes." Her voice was practically nonexistent. "I've tried to ignore that it's here but I look in at least once a day."

Her confession drew his gaze. He observed an absence of tears or any physical evidence of them recently, but there was plenty of grief. The emotion had apparently supplanted guilt — the other _g-word _she excelled at. She held her mouth in a thin, tight line and her brow was deeply furrowed. Her eyes, when she looked at him…

"I don't know why I torture myself with it," she told him and seemed to be seeking an answer from him. He gave her one, from his own experience with his leg.

"You need to know it was real," he said, his voice hushed.

She made a soft little sound of agreement then looked back to the room. "It's not fair, House," she said a heartbeat later.

"No," he agreed, not feeling the desire to give what would have been his automatic response in the past — some brutally honest but jaded remark that wouldn't make her feel any better.

Tragedy and loss were a part of life and she knew well the random, unfair nature of them. As a doctor and administrator, she frequently had a front-row seat to the unfairness and had experienced it personally, just like him. But unlike him, she hadn't let it make her bitter and cynical. If anything, she always seemed to emerge from the crucible more determined than ever to make things right.

He had no doubt she would do the same with this situation but suspected it would take more time than usual. This was a deeply personal loss, of an actual child and of her hopes of ever being a mother.

She could try to adopt again but he understood her decision to not reopen herself to that pain. He hated pain. He hated that she was in pain, which was a change for him. Normally, he wasn't overly moved by others' suffering but he felt strongly about hers, as strongly as he did his own, perhaps more.

The argument could be made that he deserved to live in agony, if not for the things he'd done before the infarction then certainly for those he'd done after. But she didn't deserve this. She was kind and decent and cared about people. She loved the infant that had been taken from her after she'd fought for the child's life. That love was making her miserable now and he couldn't stand seeing it.

Moving into her line of sight, he forced her to look at him and not the reminders of her loss. Her gaze was glassy when she looked at him but she didn't let a single tear fall, not until after they made their way to her room and lay under the covers, skin to skin. At her back, he held her close while she cried silently. They both fell asleep in time and stayed that way until a knock on the door stirred them.

She tensed instantly, but he told her to stay in bed and he'd handle it. A part of him couldn't believe he'd volunteered to do it. But he did and he made sure the people entering her home took the things out in a timely manner. He didn't thank them when they left, even though they'd been respectful and quick. He just shut the door behind them and locked it.

He returned to the bedroom to find her sitting on the side. She wasn't crying but she looked intensely sad.

He went over and sat beside her. She took his hand when he offered it then leaned her head on his shoulder. She thanked him. He didn't respond verbally, but he did turn his head and kiss the top of hers. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair and took a deep breath.

He wasn't sure what to say or do now. With only a couple hours of sleep under his belt and still new to flexing the long-atrophied muscles of his humanity, he didn't trust himself to wing it beyond what he'd already done. So he just sat with her, quiet and still, their breaths the only sound in the room, until she finally spoke.

"I want to have sex."

Direct but tinged with emotion. Not grief. Apprehension? He didn't know why she would feel that. She should know by now that he would provide that if she wanted it. He definitely wanted it with her, more than was probably decent. Tired as he was, just the mention of it was enough for his body to respond.

Raising his head, he looked at her. She didn't move. Her head still firmly rested on his shoulder and her hand still held his.

"Hey," he said softly, which prompted her to look at him. Confronted with her sadness and fears, he found himself saying something that would either make her feel supported or worse. "You can have whatever you want."

The words were ridiculously sappy and completely inaccurate — no one could have everything they wanted — but he meant them in terms of whatever he could give or do for her.

She apparently took them that way because even though he saw a flicker of pain in her eyes, it was quickly replaced by a look of gentle fondness and gratitude. She even smiled a little.

"Sure you're _up_ for it?" she teased him.

He gave her a playful scowl before drawing her hand into his lap and pressing her palm against the beginnings of his erection.

Her eyes flashed brighter. "Already?"

"You said 'sex'," he explained.

"That's all it takes?"

"The nightie helps," he smirked.

She stroked him through his jeans a few times then slowly stood and took up a position between his legs.

"I have sexier ones," she said when he helped her grasp the hem of the little shirt and pull it upward.

"Show me?" he asked then looked at her breasts when they came into view and added, "Later?"

"Later," she agreed, dropping the top to the floor as he pushed down the skimpy boy-shorts that barely contained her gorgeous ass.


	22. Chapter 22

**Part 22**

They had sex. Hot, erotic sex. The kind of sex where coming wasn't a heady rush of pleasure but something far more intense. It had sapped every ounce of energy he had and he'd fallen into a deep sleep after.

When he woke mid-afternoon, the room was filled with bright light and he was alone in the bed. He reached over to where she'd fallen asleep. The sheets cool. Turning his head, he looked at the place she'd been. He rubbed his knuckles against the fabric and memories flashed through his mind. Not of sex but of her blue-gray eyes looking at him, just before he'd fallen asleep.

Tender, amused … satisfied.

The image vivid in his mind, he felt the urge to see her. Something about that amused him to the point he found himself smiling. He was acting like a pathetic romantic, thinking the kind of thoughts he mocked others for, but he really couldn't be troubled to care at the moment. He felt too good.

Taking a deep breath, he threw the sheet aside and sat up slowly. His leg ached a little when he moved but it didn't worsen when he swung it over the side then stood. He liked that but he still took a Vicodin. He told himself it was a preventative measure. He knew better but chose not to dwell on it.

He took a hot shower instead then dressed in the fresh clothes he'd picked up from his place before making his way to hers. He skipped footwear and followed the smell of coffee, limping his way out to the kitchen, cane in hand. She wasn't there, but he caught sight of her out the window behind the sink.

She was sitting at the small patio table out back, bare feet curled up in the seat with her, a cup of what he suspected was tea cradled in her hands. She wore a light sweater that fell off her shoulders, revealing skin he'd kissed and caressed not so many hours ago. Her eyes were closed and her face turned into the breeze. A smile played along her mouth.

She was happy, at least for the moment, making him hesitant to join her. But his desire to be close to her won out over any fear of disturbing her peaceful solitude. He poured a cup of coffee into the mug she'd left out for him then made his way outside.

"Feeling rested?"

She asked the question when he stepped out onto the porch. She was looking at him with a gentleness that nearly stopped his heart in his chest.

"Yeah," he smirked and sought out the chair across from her. He hooked his cane on the edge of the little table and sipped his coffee after propping his feet on the edge of a planter.

It was nice out. Sunny and warm, but he could feel a hint of crispness in the air that signaled the approach of fall. Great weather for a bike ride. He wondered if he could talk her into getting on the back again but didn't ask directly.

"You wanna go somewhere?"

He watched her smile. She had resumed her position from earlier, eyes closed once more.

"Do you?"

He smirked and shared his observation about the weather.

"It is nice," she agreed then asked him another question. "What do you usually do on the weekends?"

Feeling his oats, he replied, "You mean if no one is dying of some condition undiagnosable by mere mortals?"

She snorted and he loved the stupid sound. He was pathetically in love with her.

"Of course," she replied, clearly amused. Her eyes sparkled with the emotion. Yes, he was definitely pathetic.

"Sleep in, assuming the leg lets me," he answered her honestly.

Predictably, her gaze strayed to the limb, but only for a moment.

"And then?" Her voice was softer.

He shrugged. "Depends."

"On…?"

"Weather … other things."

His leg, again, but he didn't say it.

"And on a day like today … with current _conditions_?" she pressed on.

"Bike ride," he said with a wink. He took a sip of his coffee.

"That's it, huh? No playing your piano or guitar?"

"Sometimes. Or I might read," he said then put the same question to her. "What about you?"

Unlike him, she didn't hedge her answers.

"This," she said, nodding to the planters of flowers around them. It was then he noticed the watering can, spade, and gloves next to one of them. The latter items were dusted with soil. He had no idea how he'd missed those things and the scent of fresh turned earth. He had no idea why he hadn't thought she'd do something as earthbound as gardening.

"I've surprised you," she noted and he didn't deny it. In fact, he smirked.

"It happens," he said, adding, "Rarely."

"You mean more often than you will admit," she said, eyes bright again with amusement.

He didn't respond to that, which earned him an impish smile from the usually formidable woman across from him.

"So what else?" he asked as he set his coffee aside. He rested his forearms on the chair arms and shut his eyes as he looked in the direction of the sun. The warmth and light felt good on his skin.

"Read," she said.

"You mean work," he accused.

"Sometimes," she said then gave a little sigh, "Usually."

Just as he'd suspected. He looked over to see that her brow had furrowed a little and she was looking across the yard.

"But not today," he said and she seemed to ease.

"No," she said, her eyes finding him once more. She held his gaze. "Where would we go?"

He raised an eyebrow and searched her eyes to see if she was really entertaining the possibility of taking a ride with him. She appeared to be, which prompted him to offer the most enticing answer he could.

"Wherever the road takes us."


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 23**

_Her ass is perfect._

Tilting his head, he studied her jean-clad bottom from a new angle and reached the same diagnosis: _perfection_. The material hugged the curves of her cheeks and hips in the most delicious way. His hands ached with the memory of what it felt like to touch those amazing parts of her anatomy. And the rest of her.

_She's insanely hot._

That diagnosis was based on a perusal of the rest of the package that was Lisa Cuddy. Instead of pumps, her feet were tucked down into a pair of designer black, leather calf-boots. Her hair was pulled in a way that largely eliminated the helmet's flattening effect on her curls. The leather jacket wasn't biker style by any means, but it looked bad ass on her. It magnificently framed the cleavage revealed by her v-neck shirt.

Watching her turn and walk back to him was enough to make him half hard. He tried to contain himself by the time she reached him with their ice cream cones. He had a little luck. But only a little.

"Spontaneity becomes you," he said, seeing how bright her eyes were.

Smiling, she handed off one of the cones to him then joined him on his perch, the top of a picnic table at the little roadside drive-in. She hooked the heels of her boots against the edge of the bench.

"How did you know about this place?" she asked as she situated the napkin around the base of her cone.

He watched her take her first lick of the ice cream then had to look away. His brain and body were entirely too attuned to her to witness that.

"I didn't," he answered her question.

"So you've never been here?"

"Nope," he said then took a lick of his own ice cream. The cold, creamy softness felt good against his tongue. _Nothing like soft serve._

"Then why did we come this way?" she asked.

"No clue. Just took the left fork instead of the right," he said then glanced over at her, "Planning isn't my thing."

"No, you plot," she accused playfully.

He smirked, "You plan."

A heartbeat then softly, "I didn't plan this."

Them. Not where they were. Although she hadn't planned that either. And neither had he.

"No," he said then went back to his ice cream for fear _the talk_ would begin.

She fell silent, too, and he watched other people order food then return to their cars or take up seats at other picnic tables. There were couples and families. His eyes fell on a particular family unit — father, mother, and newborn. He watched them interact, the dad prepped a bottle while the mother extracted the fussy infant from the carrier.

He wondered if Cuddy was watching, too. He found himself frowning at the thought. He had intended to get her away from things, but the scene playing out in front of her was entirely too real a reminder of what her life could have been like today — minus the man and the fact they were in the middle of nowhere as far as she was concerned.

"I'm okay."

He looked away from the couple when she touched his thigh. Her hand resting lightly over the scar beneath his jeans. That successfully took his attention off the couple. He wondered if she was aware of where she'd made contact with his body but only for a moment as that curiosity was quickly replaced by another: Why wasn't he trying to end it?

Finding her eyes, he knew why. Kindness and understanding greet him, and they were underscored by a gentle brushing of her thumb across the denim and a soft "thank you."

He wasn't quite sure what she was thanking him for. He was too confused by his reaction to her touch, how he was not just tolerating it but liking it. And they weren't naked.

"You okay?" she asked after a moment.

"Yeah," he nodded then reluctantly resumed eating his ice cream. In doing so, he feared she would move her hand away but she didn't. He could not define what he felt when she kept it there until they finished eating.

When she hopped down from the table, he handed her his napkin and the little paper wrapper from the base of his cone. He watched her carry them over to the trash bin then come back. She didn't resume her seat beside him, but instead knelt on the bench, between his feet.

He looked at her in question and she just smiled and laid her hands on his knees.

"What?" he asked, catching a glint of mischief in her eyes.

She tilted her head saucily then leaned toward him and whispered, "Let's ride."

When he smiled, she flashed her eyebrows at him then left the bench and set a course for his bike. Tilting his head, he took a few moments to admire her again before climbing down and following her.

_It really is perfect._


	24. Chapter 24

I am so terribly sorry, dear readers, for taking so long to post a new part; I have been unbelievably busy these last months. I greatly appreciate your encouragement and support and most importantly, your patience. I finally found a few moments this week to collect my thoughts and re-immerse myself into the land of House and put together this part. I hope it you find it worth the wait.

* * *

**Part 24**

They stopped periodically while they were out so that he could stretch his leg. She was thankful for the breaks as well; her backside wasn't used to sitting on a narrow, vibrating seat for long periods of time.

She'd shared the observation with him at one stop and, not surprisingly, it had amused him. He'd smirked and offered a massage for her "substantial derrière." She'd shot him a saucy look in reply.

They were returning to Princeton now and weren't far away. The setting sun was warming her back through her leather jacket. It was a comfortable heat, but not as comforting as the heat of House's body. She only wished he was comfortable.

After several days of manageable pain, he was headed for a major round with it. His thigh was cramping, or so she guessed. He'd refused to talk about it when she'd asked. He'd just climbed on the bike and signaled her to get on behind him. She had and since, she'd felt the tension in his body increasing despite the pair of Vicodin he'd taken at their last stop.

With him under the influence, they probably shouldn't have been on the bike at all, but when she considered his tolerance for the drug she didn't worry too much. He drove all the time with the narcotic in his system and she didn't think he'd be reckless with her on board.

When they pulled in at her place, she quickly dismounted so that she could ease the burden on his left leg, which was holding the weight of them both and the machine. She stripped off her helmet and waited for him to dismount, but he didn't. He didn't even shut off the engine.

"Keep that," he said, nodding to the helmet in her hand while not removing his own.

She frowned. "You're not coming in?"

Pain was etched in every line of his face and saturated the blue of his eyes.

"Going home."

She ignored the little shake of his head and the slight edge in his tone, the latter undoubtedly a product of his discomfort. She paid attention instead to the conflict reflected in his gaze instead. He didn't seem to want to go, despite what he was saying.

"You shouldn't drive any farther," she pointed out.

She watched his features vacillate between agony and something she couldn't quite define.

"You don't want me here, Cuddy."

There was no bite in the words but they were a warning nevertheless. She faced it head-on, aware of what she was getting into with her invitation. She knew how he could be when his pain was bad and she was willing to face it. She wanted to help him as he had her this last week. She didn't know how much he'd let her, but she desired it, whatever it turned out to be. She could see he wasn't entirely opposed to it, but he was afraid of it.

She was honest in her answer. "Yes, I do, actually."

She stepped closer to him and the heat from the bike warmed her legs even though her boots and jeans. His eyes searched hers and she took the opportunity his distraction provided, reaching and turning off the bike. She palmed the keys and stepped back, recalling the first time she'd done the same thing, just days ago.

"Come on," she said and watched his gaze flicker. She thought she saw a flare of relief before there was nothing but pain again. It sealed her opinion that he needed to just come inside and not fight her — or his own needs.

She released the breath she'd been holding when he shifted and pushed the kickstand down. She noted he was slow dismounting and moving in general. Out of caution, she waited until he had his cane in hand before she headed to the front door.

Once inside, she set her helmet on the dining table and he placed his own beside it when he reached her.

She looked at him a moment then asked, "Will a hot bath help?"

He met her gaze for a second. "Yeah."

His answer secured, she set a course to her bedroom, tossing her coat onto the bed as she passed. She ducked into the bathroom and turned on the water to warm. Returning to her room, she found him sitting on the side of the bed, stripping off his jacket. She stepped up to help him but he shot her a look that more than _suggested_ that she let him do it. She ignored him again, as she had his earlier warnings, and grasped the hem of his t-shirt.

"Let me help you," she said and watched him bristle. She could tell he wanted to say something, probably unkind, but he held his tongue and lifted his arms when she drew the garment up his torso.

While she set it aside, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans. She knelt and untied his sneakers. She slipped them off his feet and his socks. When he offered no protest, she glanced up at him. He was looking at her, his expression indecipherable again.

She moved back to make room for him to stand and he did without her asking. She helped him out of his jeans and his boxers. Her eyes were invariably drawn to his mangled thigh. It didn't look any different than usual. She found herself reaching to touch it but he stopped her with a word.

"Don't."

It was said so softly that she looked up at him again to see the pleading she'd heard in his voice. She did not ignore his request this time, seeing it wasn't rooted in pride or vanity but a genuine need.

She touched his knee instead. "Okay."

At her concession, his relief was virtually palpable, making her glad she'd listened.

"I'll check the water," she said softly as she rose.

After making an adjustment and checking that the plug was tightly in the drain, she snagged a couple of towels and sat them near the tub. She turned to go get him but he was already coming through the doorway. His limp was extremely pronounced as he hobbled caneless into the room. His left hand sought out steady structures as he navigated toward the tub. His right hand braced his thigh. The skin was white where his fingertips pressed into the muscles. His jaw was clenched tight and his brow deeply furrowed.

Her heart hurt for him. She felt guilty that he had to deal with pain at all and ashamed for all the times she'd accused him of goldbricking, using his leg as an excuse to get out of work. He wore his pain on his sleeve, but he clearly didn't let people see _this_ — except maybe the hookers he employed as masseuses. She didn't like that, but she could understand it, sort of. It was sometimes easier to share pain with a stranger, let them witness it, than friends. His next words confirmed her observation.

"Don't pity me." It was said through clenched teeth.

"I don't," she said and meant it. Pity wasn't what she felt. Not the way he meant.

When he looked away from her, she debated on whether to stay or leave him to get in the tub on his own. A part of her wanted to ask, but she didn't. Instead, she braved closing the distance to him. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder and skimmed her fingers lightly across his abdomen.

"Let me know if you need anything?"

He nodded and she eased away.


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 25**

She managed to get him to eat a little bit of soup before he laid down.

Understandably, he hadn't been keen on eating at all. Nausea was often a companion to intense or prolonged pain, but he'd conceded because it'd been largely broth and it would keep the Vicodin from further upsetting his stomach.

The bath had helped his pain, but it hadn't taken it away. The way he moved so carefully told her that he feared it could return to its previous intensity with the slightest provocation.

Once he was stretched out across her bed, she dared ask him if she could do anything more that would help. His answer had been a shake of his head, no words. She didn't like the feeling of helplessness that settled over her but knew he wouldn't want her to hover. Not knowing what to do with herself, she kissed him on the brow then slipped quietly out of the room to let him rest.

She busied herself with the files she'd brought home the night before, making her way through each one methodically. They occupied her but they didn't ease her worry or the feeling that she was at least partly responsible for his misery. He'd tell her that was crap, and he'd be right, but that didn't erase the feelings.

Taking a break from the reports, she fixed a glass of wine then wandered quietly down the hall to check on House. He was asleep but it wasn't a restful slumber. The light from behind her spilled into the room and revealed a tangled mess of covers. It looked as though he'd been in and out of the bed, or had at least sat up several times.

Frowning, she eased into the room. She set her wine on the dresser then approached the bedside. She fought the impulse to touch him, not sure if in his state, it would startle him. She observed a light sheen of sweat on his brow and wondered if it was a product of his pain or the opiates in his system. She cared for neither prospect, nor the answers to the questions running through her mind.

_How many nights has he done this alone? How many days? And how many times have I, and Wilson, and so many others dismissed it or minimized it simply because we didn't see it — or want to? How much pain did we cause him beyond _this_?_

"You're feeling guilty."

It took her a moment to realize that his eyes were open and had been for several seconds. It hadn't registered until he spoke. She blinked and refocused, but didn't confirm or deny his observation because he was right and he knew it.

"Can I get you anything?"

He shook his head then sat up slowly and eased his right leg over the side of the bed. He only grimaced slightly, even when his hands began massaging his thigh. She watched him silently, wishing…

She moved closer to him, asked softly, "Will you let me?"

He looked up at her and she thought he might object. He definitely hesitated before he moved his hands away and braced them on the edge of the bed. His trust was touching and she thanked him for it by caressing his face first, her fingers smoothing across his knitted brow then thumbs sweeping across his whiskered cheeks.

Her heart trembled when his eyes fell shut and he made a contented sound. She kissed him gently and had to fight saying words neither of them was ready to speak or hear. So she said them silently.

_I love you._

When she eased back, she caught his gaze a moment then looked down at his leg. Her shadow fell across it but she could still see the scar, darker than the rest of his skin.

Very carefully, she laid her hands on his thigh, framing the healed wound and silently wishing her touch could take away every last trace his pain, for all time. She kneaded the tense muscles, keeping her pressure light, unsure how much would be too much.

He was stone silent as she worked. She heard only his breaths, not truly labored but not quite normal either. She worked her way gently from knee to hip. The knuckles of her right hand brushed his sex and it responded. It surprised her, because of the pain.

_But he lives with this and he…_

"Do they do this for you?" she asked the question without expecting to, perversely curious.

Surprisingly, or not, he didn't ask her to clarify who. He just answered. "Yes."

Images flashed through her mind of him like this, with another woman, a hooker, in her place. It should have disgusted her but what she felt was jealousy. She envied them that he let them close to him when he was hurting.

"But there's no happy ending," he whispered, interrupting her thoughts.

She paused, her hear taking a skipping beat. "There's not?"

His breath was warm against her neck. He had turned his face toward her and was hovering near.

"No."

"Then why?" she asked, again curious as to why he would pay for their time and not utilize it beyond what she was currently providing.

"No questions. No expectations."

It wasn't an indictment but she suddenly felt guilty for asking. "I'm sorry."

He was closer now, all but touching her. "You needed to know."

She wasn't sure she had _needed_ to know, but she'd wanted to. That he pegged it as a need had her considering the possibility and enticed him to expound.

"Did I?"

"Yeah."

The word was whispered at the meeting of her shoulder and neck. She shivered at the delicate caress of his breath and how it continued, ghosting over her skin as he lingered. Of their own accord, her hands were continuing to massage his thigh.

"Why? Because we've been having sex?"

He tilted his head, moving impossibly closer but still not touching her. She found herself craving contact.

"Because it's been more than sex."

She could not deny that. Heart fluttering, she shut her eyes and pressed her cheek to his temple. "Yes."

He drew back slowly and she met his gaze again and what she saw there…

"I want a happy ending."

The whisper was a caress to her heart. Her hands stilled and she let him move her right to cover the moderate bulge in his boxers. She cupped him gently and he slowly closed his eyes. When his lips parted, she kissed him, lips just grazing against lips. He let out a soft sound then tilted his head and captured her mouth fully, tenderly.

She brought her left hand up and sank her fingers into his hair. She thrilled when she felt his hands on her back, slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. His touch was light, skimming.

She wondered how he could manage to do any of it with the pain, but his erection was growing in defiance. She thrilled at feeling it and indulged in a moment of vanity as his beleaguered body responded to her as it hadn't for the women whose profession was sex.

_Because it's more than sex_, she reminded herself then eased from their kiss.

She found his eyes in the shadowed darkness and whispered softly.

"Lay back."


	26. Chapter 26

**Part 26**

He was asleep again, this time more soundly. His pain had eased after he'd given himself over to her care.

She had tended him with hands and mouth, his entire body, from head to toe. She'd given him his happy ending after she'd worked the tension from his thigh then the rest of him. And he'd let her, _willingly_ made himself vulnerable for every touch and kiss and caress of her tongue.

She'd bathed him with a cool cloth after and he'd touched her as she did. He'd skimmed his fingers over her hands and along her arms. He'd caressed her face then kissed her when she was done.

She'd felt love from him and gratitude. Both emotions had been clear in his eyes and she hadn't bothered to hide her own feelings for him throughout it all.

Laying next to him now as he slept, she felt at peace. She felt she was where she was supposed to be and who she was supposed to be with. She hadn't felt that way all that often in her life and never _truly_ in relation to another person. Except once, briefly, with him in Michigan years ago.

Even though the room was dark, enough ambient light from the moon filtered in through the window for her to just make out the features of his face. Moving her hand from the pillow where her head rested, she gently brushed her knuckles against his cheek.

When he didn't stir, she extended her caress, drawing her fingers slowly through his hair. That's how she'd lulled him to sleep earlier, laying where she was but propped up on an elbow. She'd followed the same path again and again until he drifted into a clearly deep, exhausted, satiated slumber.

She was glad. He needed to rest. And so did she.

Moving her hand once more, she laid it on his chest then shifted to press a kiss to the warm skin of his shoulder. She settled then, her head on the corner of her pillow, close enough to breathe him in but not disturb him.

She slept 'til morning, waking to a sunlight-filled room, telling her it was still fairly early in the day. The warmth at her back told her that she wasn't in bed alone. That thought made her happy.

Taking a deep breath, she started to turn over, but was stopped by the arm of her bedmate. It was suddenly wrapped around her and pulling her back against his body. He was more than awake.

"Guess what I want for breakfast?"

It was said playfully against the rim of her ear as he nuzzled close to her. She couldn't help the smile it elicited.

"Me?" It was a pretty safe bet.

"How'd you guess?" A teasing whisper.

"Your penis is pretty adamant back there."

"Little Greg."

A moment's pause, then laughter. It bubbled up out of her. _He named his penis!_

"_Little Greg_?" she snickered.

"Big Greg was taken. By me. So Little Greg seemed the most obvious choice. But not in the literal sense."

_Silly. Absolutely silly. And so _him_._

She covered his hand where it rested on her belly. "No, he's not little."

"True," he conceded with the appropriate lack of humility, "But Greg's Pleasure Wand doesn't quite roll of the tongue."

She smirked. "Little Greg does. Linguistically, and literally."

He went quiet behind her and his thumb moved in a slow, gentle arc against the fabric of her nightshirt.

"Thank you," he said softly and her heart responded to the sincerity in the two words.

She caressed his hand. "You're welcome."

He eased back from her, his hand moving to her hip as he did. Gentle pressure applied by his fingers prompted her to turn over. Once she was on her back, he moved over her. She looked up at him, pleased beyond words to see no sign of pain in the features of his face or in the brilliant blue of his eyes. She wrapped her arms around him as he descended and welcomed the kiss he gave her. It was tender and loving and arousing.

She welcomed all three and the gentle seduction he enacted. They kissed and caressed. He eased her out of her night clothes and shed his boxers. Then he was inside her and they were kissing again. It was passionate but unhurried lovemaking and she loved every second of it.

She loved him. And he loved her.

The need for sustenance eventually drove them from the bed but they ended up back there again, several times throughout the day, to satisfy the craving for each other. The rest of the time they'd been utterly lazy. They'd taken several naps, in the bed and on the couch after having dozed off watching some nature show. She'd read while he massaged her feet — something she'd never thought of him doing for anyone.

When evening rolled around, he told her he should probably go home for the night since they had work in the morning. He hadn't been happy to make the suggestion and she had been troubled to hear it, even if she understood the practicalities that prompted it.

She'd slept with him almost every night for the last week and the thought of sleeping alone came with a feeling of loss. She'd never felt that before, with any other lover, not that she'd had many sleepovers. Which she supposed made it all the more poignant, because she wanted it with him.

Later, when they stood at the door, she found herself asking him to stay, memories of that first night assailing her as she did. He didn't give her his back, though, and he didn't try to disabuse her of the notion. No, this time, he caressed her cheek then kissed her and told her he'd see her in the morning. It wasn't a dismissal but a promise and she let him go.

Once his bike was out of sight, she shut the door and locked it. The sound was almost deafening. She leaned back against the structure and stared down the dimly lit hallway. An overwhelming sense of emptiness came over her and it, too, was something she'd never felt before in her home. Lonely, yes, she'd felt that, but never _alone_.

She didn't like it.


	27. Chapter 27

**Part 27**

The ceiling of his bedroom was boring. That wasn't news. Plus, he found most everything boring. Even Wilson was boring sometimes. But Cuddy wasn't. He always found her interesting, even when he found her predictable. She was an anomaly.

_She's a smokin' hot anomaly … but not just that._

Last night had proved it to him, more even than the nights before. He couldn't remember the last time he'd trusted someone to that degree, or if he'd ever trusted anyone as much, especially by choice.

He'd let his guard down so far that he'd even answered her questions about the hookers, which surprisingly hadn't been all that awkward. She definitely hadn't been the way he'd always imagined she might be once the subject was broached. She hadn't judged or scolded him or even expressed disgust. She'd just listened and then given him what he asked for, and more.

Memories of the more and of the last week were keeping him awake.

They were going to have to talk soon. Even though a part of him could go on forever as they were now, it just wasn't feasible. In a casual relationship, participants could let it taper and then drift their separate ways, no harm, no foul. But they weren't causal and it never could be _that_ with her. He'd known that long before he'd kissed her in her hallway a week ago, and not because of their professional roles.

She wasn't the casual relationship-type and, despite what people might think or what he'd made them think, he wasn't one either. He went to bed alone more often than not. One-night stands were more common than second dates, if he bothered at all. The hookers met a need, nothing more. As for Stacy, the only other woman in his life he could claim to have loved, she was the past, a painful part of it.

Cuddy was the present, and possibly the future.

She hadn't wanted him to go tonight. She'd wanted him to stay and he'd been tempted to despite the practical need to return home for grooming and fresh clothes. As he lay staring at the blank surface above him, he now questioned that choice.

He could be looking at her ceiling right now, with her. He could be looking _at_ her.

An ache filled his chest when he turned his head and looked at the pillow next to him. The ache expanded when he reached a hand over to the empty space where he would have her. The cool bedding mocked him.

He was alone. He didn't want to be.

_I don't have to be. _

He had a choice and he made it.

Throwing off the covers, he dressed and grabbed up his knapsack. He shoved in a change of clothes, his Vicodin, and his cellphone. He grabbed his cane, and snagged his jacket and helmet on the way out.

He smiled as he cranked the engine and put the bike into gear. The expression re-emerged when she opened her front door at his second knock. She smiled, too, and it conveyed the same relief he felt.

She stepped back and he went inside. He dropped his bag there in the entry and leaned his cane against the wall.

As soon as she shut and locked the door, he took her in his arms and pressed her against the dark wood. He kissed her with everything he felt for her — love and passion and things he didn't even have words for.

She kissed him back. Her hands slipped beneath his jacket and up his back. She clutched at his t-shirt and arched to press her body to his. He shuddered inside and out at the contact.

Arms securely around her, he lifted her up onto her toes and pulled her impossibly closer. He wanted in her, to be a part of her.

"I need you," he whispered against her mouth.

"Me, too," she breathed then drew back.

Blue-green eyes dark with desire locked onto his and he saw unspoken words lurking between her lowered lashes. He heard them in his head. They were the words he thought to communicate to her.

"Cuddy," he whispered.

She clutched him tighter. "I know."

She did know. He saw that, too. So he kissed her, and turned her, and walked her back toward her room. His jacket was lost along the way. His t-shirt and her nightshirt joined it. Everything else was shed between her bedroom door and the bed.

He was inside her as soon as she was sitting on the side of the mattress. She gasped and pressed her fingers hard into his shoulders, instinctively leveraging to thrust her hips to meet his. The firm connection sent a shock of pleasure along his spine, rising up from where it was coalescing in his groin.

"Yeah," he encouraged and sought out her mouth with his own.

She met him and they kissed as he penetrated her repeatedly. Her heels dug into his backside while he worked himself as deep as he could get. And when that wasn't enough, he helped her into a position that let her take all of him.

Her legs hooked over the bends of his elbows, she grasped his forearms and undulated against him. The fluid motion caressed the whole length of him and he almost lost control when she locked her eyes on his and did it again and again and again.

The pleasure was intense but it's what being with her did to the other parts of him that vaulted him over the brink.

"Yes, come," he heard her moan as he filled her.

Then he felt her follow and came again.


	28. Chapter 28

**Part 28**

He couldn't keep his eyes off her.

It was a common problem when they were alone. It was growing more common at work. He'd always looked at her when they crossed paths at the hospital, but for the last couple of weeks, he'd felt compelled to seek her out more often than before — and not always for a face-to-face encounter.

Currently, he was supposed to be in his office staring at symptoms on his whiteboard. Instead, he was on the balcony above the clinic area waiting for her to emerge from her office. He wasn't worried, though. Having an eidetic memory meant the whiteboard was a part of his brain and his team could call him or find him if there was an emergency.

So he was taking a break and leaning on the railing, waiting for a glimpse of her as she left for some sort of nurse managers' meeting that was on her calendar. He was pleased with himself for having yet again figured out her password within three guesses. It amused him that she still bothered changing it whenever he breached it. She knew it would just happen again. He would make sure of that but had decided to wait a while before tipping her off to his latest incursion into her private files.

Three weeks into a clandestine affair, they'd yet to tip off anyone about _them_. Nothing had changed in their professional interactions, at least in front of others, even though everything had changed away from the hospital.

He still challenged her at work, butting heads and keeping up appearances even when either of them saw the other surrender sooner than they might have in the past. He still balked about clinic duty, but consoled himself by paging her for consults — to patient-less rooms — until she'd reminded him, sternly, she had a job to do. Then she'd softened the blow with a kiss and told him what time she hoped to finish work for the day.

They had only slept apart a few nights in that time. Usually they stayed at her place, but on long days or when he had a critical patient they stayed at his, unless he sensed a surprise visit by Wilson was imminent. Then they turned in at their respective homes.

He feared tonight might be one of those when he caught sight of his friend on the other side of the balcony, headed toward him. The boyishly handsome oncologist was a better friend than he deserved, but also a busybody and gossip. The latter he did not need, so he planned to reduce the odds during their pending exchange.

"Plotting a coup?"

Sarcasm was Wilson's stock in trade, but he was a journeyman compared to House.

"Considering gender reassignment."

Wilson leaned on the railing next to him. "Not yours surely?"

"Cuddy's."

"You know she's aware you are the source of that rumor, right?"

"Of course, she knows. She's not an idiot." He glanced over at Wilson and scowled. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," his friend countered.

"You did," House reminded him.

"Sort of," Wilson conceded. "But you didn't really answer."

"I did," House said, shooting him another look, "Sort of."

Wilson made a scoffing sound. "You're an ass."

House pulled a face. "Duh."

"There are times I'd swear you're eight."

Glee wasn't an emotion House felt often, but he was feeling it at the moment. Wilson had just left him the _perfect_ opening…

Righting himself, House pivoted and reached for the buckle on his belt. "Eight, right. Try—"

Wilson immediately backed away, eyebrows climbing his forehead as he held his hands up and shook his head. "Whoa!"

House paused. "You don't want to see?"

Flustered, Wilson glanced around to see if anyone else was within earshot before pinning him with a look that clearly asked _Are you crazy?_

"No," his friend said unequivocally.

House cocked his head and took a limping half-step forward as he began sliding the leather through the metal ring. "Are you sure?"

That was all it took for Wilson to wave his hands in defeat and beat a hasty retreat.

Smirking, House waited until he was in the elevator before he righted his belt and turned to resume his vigil. When he did, he saw Cuddy looking up at him from the first floor, trying to fight off a full-out smile.

That smile threatened to return later, when they were at his place. She was sitting at one end of his tub while he sat at the other.

"Would you have done it?"

He smirked. "Maybe. Would you fire me if I had?"

Her smile became wily. "Maybe."

He pushed out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, which prompted her to change her answer.

"I doubt it," she confessed and House watched her expression soften, "Poor Wilson. Do you think he suspects at all?"

House considered his interactions with his friend over the last few weeks before he answered. "Not yet."

She sighed. "I feel bad that we're keeping this from him."

"You shouldn't. It has nothing to do with him." At his answer, she gave him a look that prompted him to add in his usual fashion, "Unless you're thinking threesome. But considering his reaction today, I doubt he's game."

"He's our friend—"

"He also likes to meddle and is way too plugged into the rumor mill," he reminded her then paused and considered something else, a frown forming. "Do you want him to know?"

Her answer came in the form of a soft but certain "no." It was the response he'd expected considering they still hadn't talked about the change in things. Actions had been and remained their primary form of expression and discussion. At least until he was awoken several hours later by a call from his team.

After answering it and giving orders, he dressed and then bent over her in the bed and kissed her goodbye.

"I love you," he whispered, the words coming as naturally as breathing.

She smiled at him when she said them back.


	29. Chapter 29

**Part 29**

He sat on the ledge of the small balcony outside his office and stared up at the early morning sky.

While his team ran tests to confirm his diagnosis, he was taking the time to stargaze. There was no sign of the sun yet and wouldn't be for a while, but he could easily make out the larger stars of the Milky Way, and Venus and Jupiter. The wonders of the universe weren't on his mind, though. No, his mind was preoccupied with what had happened a few hours earlier.

_I love you._

He'd said it. He hadn't planned to. He had thought he would say it in the heat of the moment, or when they finally had _the_ talk, not in the hush of night when he was leaving her to sleep in his bed. He was fairly certain she hadn't expected it to happen like that either, nor to say them herself under those circumstances. But she had. And now it was out there, exposed mostly, if not fully.

The talk would happen now and he found himself afraid. It wasn't a paralyzing fear but the trepidation he expected from stepping into yet another new territory. For him, the last three weeks had been ones of unprecedented emotional and even physical intimacy. He was fairly certain it was the same for her.

Not once had sex been _just sex_ with her. There'd been an emotional component every time, even when things were really heated. He loved her and he hadn't been able to forget that when he was skin to skin with her. He'd been helpless to stop himself from expressing it and he hadn't tried to control it.

He'd comforted her with an ease that surprised him, then he'd let her comfort him. He had the sense they'd awoken something long dormant in each other. The need for closeness, perhaps? Or maybe the fundamental desire to be loved? Or maybe it was both, one giving birth to the other?

What he knew was that both those needs were being met for him, and he suspected there were others that he wasn't even conscious of. He felt happy in ways he never had before and could hardly fathom how a kiss of compassion in a softly lit hallway had led him to this point in his life. But he was here and he was deeply in love with…

"How's your patient?"

He ceased his observation of the heaves and looked to see the woman from his thoughts standing in the balcony entrance to his office. She stepped outside with him and let the door shut behind her.

Wearing an oversize sweater, jeans and boots, she looked sexy. Her expression was slightly pensive making him wonder if she was unsure of how she would be welcomed. She needn't be but he understood her timidity.

"They're running final tests now to confirm the diagnosis."

She stepped slowly toward him, a coy smile sliding across the line of her mouth. "Are you already treating?"

"What do you think?"

Her smile broadened a little then she glanced toward the windows that ran along the back of his conference room. The blinds were drawn. He smiled at her caution.

"They're supposed to call me."

Her expression became sheepish but her gaze strayed again, briefly, to a point over his shoulder. _Wilson's office._

"And Wilson's at home. Or over at the next Mrs. Wilson's."

She smiled again and stopped when she was directly in front of him, her feet between his. Her gaze drifted over his face, briefly lingered on his mouth. She wanted to kiss him, he surmised and his postulation was proved correct when she leaned toward him. He mirrored her and met her for a gentle pressing of lips, like earlier.

She touched her brow to his then and lingered. "The bed was empty without you."

The gentle whisper made his heart do funny things in his chest. He opened his eyes just long enough to see that hers were still closed.

"Couldn't be," he teased. "You were in it. With that big, gloriously perfect ass."

She let out a soft, amused sound. "Speaking of asses…"

He smirked and would have kissed her again if his phone hadn't rang. He picked up the device from where it lay, on the railing beside him, and answered quickly.

Eyes on the sexy woman whose hands were now resting gently on his chest, he responded smugly. "Let me guess. My diagnosis is confirmed. The patient is already showing improvement. And I can go home and back to bed now."

Taub's voice came from the other end of the line. _"Yes."_

Having heard all he needed to hear, House replied with a cheerful "okay, see ya" then snapped the phone shut. He stood and pocketed the device when Cuddy took a step back.

"You don't want to know anything more?" she asked.

He responded with the absolute confidence formed from two days of tests, treatments, and DDxes.

"Nope. I know the more. Now I want to know you. In the biblical sense. Or is that Torahic sense? Since you're Jewish, does referring to the traditional idiom breach cultural etiquette?"

She parried his verbal thrust. "You're an idiot and could give a damn about cultural etiquette."

He took hold of her hand and led her to the door.

"Actually, I'm an atheist and could give a damn about a lot of things," he said, hooking his cane over his arm before grasping the handle. He pulled the door open and ushered her through ahead of him, releasing her hand as she passed. Cane in hand again, he ambled to his desk and gathered up his things.

"But your ass is not one of them," he continued. "I give a _big_ damn about that," he said as he joined her at the outer door to his office. He handed her his bag then shrugged on his coat. The leather creaked with every movement.

"Is that the only thing?" It wasn't a bid for flattery. And she already knew the answer. He answered anyway.

"Nope." He settled his jacket on his shoulders.

"What else then?" She already knew the answer to that, too.

"All your bits," he said playfully, then added with grave sincerity, "And _you_."

He saw her fight the urge to touch him. Her hand rose and was on course for his face when she apparently realized what she was doing. She immediately changed tack and reached for the door handle instead.

Her fingers curled around it and pulled.

"Let's go back to bed," she said softly and stepped out into the corridor.

He followed.


	30. Chapter 30

**Part 30**

She didn't want to get up and go to work. Just because.

Well, not _just_ because, but because she didn't want to move from where she was, snuggled against House's side. After they'd returned from the hospital, they'd undressed and crawled back into his bed and went to sleep.

They hadn't talked about their confessions of love. They hadn't made love. They'd just spooned and slept up until just a few minutes ago, when her alarm sounded. She'd turned it off but that's as much movement as she'd committed herself to for the morning. Any other movement was up in the air — except maybe what was needed to take care of a call of nature.

"You okay?"

The sleepy mumble came from behind her. She smiled but didn't open her eyes.

"Yes."

He hugged her tighter to him. His arm was around her waist and his hand was cupping her left breast — something he'd apparently done in the night. _Which is another reason to stay in bed_, she mused.

"You're not getting up," he observed.

"I don't want to move," she told him.

"Me either," he commiserated. "Need more sleep. And _sex_, later."

The stage-whisper of the word "sex" amused her. It was _so _him. And she loved him, which was the biggest reason she didn't want to leave. It's the reason she'd made the brief journey to the hospital last night. She wanted to be near him and even though they worked in the same place, the distance from her office and his was too much to contemplate when they were so close right now.

"You'll get sex no matter what," she assured him.

"I like you, Lisa Cuddy," he declared and nuzzled into her hair. She shivered when his lips found the back of her neck. The soft kiss he bestowed made her heart flutter. "Now go back to sleep."

She wanted to, _really_ wanted to, but ultimately she couldn't. She had a full schedule for the day, including a board meeting that she absolutely couldn't miss.

"I can't," she sighed after a moment.

He grumbled. "Cuddy…"

She caressed his arm in commiseration. "I know," she said softly then urged him to release her. He did, but not before giving her breast a gentle squeeze.

"Can you leave those?" he asked when she began to ease away.

"Wouldn't they be a bit boring all by themselves?" she asked.

He made a noncommittal sound then mumbled, "Bring them with you when you come back."

She had to laugh. "Where exactly do you think they're going that I'm not with them?"

"Good point," he sighed. "Bring all of you."

Sitting up now, she smiled as she looked over her shoulder at him. She saw his eyes were shut and wondered if he'd opened them at all since waking. _Probably not. _

Shifting, she leaned down and kissed his temple. "Come in after lunch," she told him.

"Okay," he sighed.

When she rose, his hand immediately came to rest where she'd been laying. She loved that and the image remained with her as she showered and dressed, and into the workday. It came into sharp relief when she saw him enter the clinic entrance just after noon.

He looked more rested than he had in the pre-dawn hours. She was glad to see it — and the little smirk he shot her as he crossed to the elevator. He had a bit of a spring in his limp, too, she noted. Vanity told it had everything to do with her, and _them_.

She didn't see him again until later in the day, after his team alerted her that a patient's father had punched him. Not knowing the circumstances of the encounter, she didn't know whether to be mad at him or the jerk who hit him. With his bedside manner, it could be either way. He may have changed with her, but she doubted he'd changed in his approach to getting to the truth.

She found him in his office, leaned back in his Eames holding a bag of ice on his cheek … and one on his right knee. The latter sparked a different level of concern, but she tried to keep it in check as his team looked on. Admittedly, Cameron's unexpected presence made it easier. Even though she was openly dating Chase, she still hovered over House at times and it irritated Cuddy.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, letting that irritation saturate the words because it was honest, even if no one might guess what caused it, and would help protect her and House's secret.

"Took one for the team," House said, looking up at her. When he moved the ice, she winced inwardly, seeing a cut had been butterflied.

"He took one for the mother of his patient," Cameron clarified, clearly unhappy that he had.

The explanation caused Cuddy to pause. It was a new one.

Incredulous, she asked, "You didn't piss him off?"

"No, mistress, I was a good boy," House said then held the ice against his cheek again. "But that doesn't mean I don't want a spanking."

She rolled her eyes and admitted that she probably would have laughed or smiled if the situation had been different. She looked to Foreman who did roll his eyes and telegraph his usual disdain for House's manner. Taub was equally annoyed but Kutner quickly backed up Cameron's explanation, offering a firsthand account.

"The guy took swing at her. House was closest and tried to stop him."

"Where is he now?" she asked.

Thirteen answered. "Security's holding him. The mother asked us to not call the police. She's concerned he won't make bail and their son is getting sicker."

Cuddy didn't know whether to be pissed off or understanding. She looked at House.

"You want to press charges?"

He held her gaze a moment then shook his head. He grimaced with the motion. "If she doesn't want to, it'd be a waste of time to press them over this," he said, moving the icepack away again. He gestured to his cheek with it and then his knee before settling the bag on his thigh. "And their kid doesn't have time to waste."

He glanced up at the hovering Cameron first then to his team. "Speaking of which, don't you have tests to run, treatments to perform? You know that doctoring stuff you went to school for? There's a kid dying, you know."

They looked between each other and at Cuddy before they left, Foreman in the lead.

Soon as they were gone, Cuddy eased over and sat on the corner of the ottoman where House had his leg propped. Closer to him now, she could see the beginnings of a bruise. The laceration wasn't deep, thankfully, just a tearing of the skin. She looked to his knee and frowned.

"I twisted it going down," he explained before she could ask.

"How bad?" she asked, meeting his gaze. She could see he was in pain even though it wasn't nearly as evident as a few weeks ago.

"Nothing Vicodin, a hot bath, and full-body massage from a bodacious dean of medicine won't cure." He didn't smile when he said it and she saw no hint of humor in his gaze. It was a deflection. He was hurting worse than he wanted her to know.

"Did you get an x-ray?"

"It's just a sprain," he answered but didn't sound entirely convinced. He was worried and with the injury being to his already compromised limb, she more than understood why.

"Let's do one anyway," she said then waited to see if he would lash out at her. In the past, he would have. But he didn't now, although it was several moments before he agreed with a single nod.

She gave him a commiserating look and laid her hand on his. His skin was cool from the icepack he held, but she felt the warmth beneath. And she saw it in his eyes when he looked down to where her fingers covered his. He moved his thumb, bestowing a gentle caress along the side of her index finger.

It was such a simple thing and yet wonderfully powerful.

"You okay to walk?" she asked, feeling just a bit breathless.

He nodded then looked up at her again.

_Love. _It was right there, looking her in the eye. She smiled at seeing it, unable to hide how it made her feel. She caressed his hand then stood and moved out of his way.

"Come on," she said softly, "I'll write up the orders."


	31. Chapter 31

**Part 31**

Perched on the floor by his fireplace, she brushed through her wet hair while he sat on the couch, foot propped on the coffee table. A heating pad was draped across his knee.

The sprain wasn't bad but it hadn't stopped Wilson from going mother hen on his best friend when he found out. House hadn't been able to dissuade him from driving him home, and then hadn't been able to get him to leave.

More than two hours after House had gone home, she'd wrapped up her day and headed to his place for the night. She hadn't expected to spend another thirty-minutes waiting in her car while he tried to evict his friend from the premises. Ready to unwind for the day, she'd almost thrown in the towel, but Wilson thankfully left before she'd committed to that course.

"How's it feel?" She nodded toward House's leg.

"Would be worse if I'd had to _actually_ kick Wilson out," he said with a healthy dose of sarcasm before shrugging noncommittally, "It's fine. This was a compromise to make the nag happy."

Setting the brush in her lap, she ran her fingers through her damp locks, fluffing them. "He's been gone a while," she pointed out.

He held her gaze a moment. "It's a little achy. But I'll live."

She smiled gently at the latter. "That's good to know."

"Can I expect to be ravished later?" he asked, baiting her.

She cocked her jaw and flirted back. "Unless you'd rather be ravished now."

He quickly threw the heating pad aside and planted his feet on the floor.

"Game on, Cuddy."

Smirking and laughing low in her throat, she moved the brush to the coffee table and made her way over to him. She glanced at his knee when she was standing next to him.

"It's fine," he assured her again and caught her fingers in his. She looked at him and saw all the things that made her heart skip beats.

_Desire. Love. Need. _She felt them, too, and wanted to indulge them both.

Easing her hand from his, she slowly stripped off her nightshirt. Her body heated when he leaned forward and hooked his fingers in the narrow waistband of her white, lacy thong.

Her fingers joined his and together, they eased the garment past her hips and down her thighs. He sat back when it reached her knees. For a moment, the scrap of fabric lingered there and she heard him take in a breath that held her name when she shifted just enough for it to descend out of view.

She trembled when his heated gaze unabashedly took her in and when he reached for her, his right hand touching her left. Looking up at her, he gently gathered her fingers in his and drew them to his shoulder. She braced herself and carefully joined him on the sofa.

"You're beautiful," he told her as she moved astride him. His voice was filled with the desirous wonder she saw in his gaze.

"I feel sexy," she said softly and welcomed the hot weight of his hands on her hips.

"You are." His opinion, stated as empirical fact. She was vain enough to love it, but not as much as she loved him.

Taking his face in her hands, she leaned toward him and whispered her own empirical fact. "So are you."

His gaze flickered and he slid his fingers and palms up over her back. His touch was light, making her shiver.

Closing the scant distance between them, she kissed him in a breathy grazing of her lips to his. She hummed when he immediately captured her in a firmer connection.

The soft smacks of their mouths moving slowly together blended with the snaps and hisses coming from the hearth. Which blended with the sultry hush of their breaths and the muted creak of the leather couch beneath them.

She had been thinking about this off and on throughout the day and she told him so, on a soft whisper into his mouth. Then she smiled when she remembered what she'd told him before she'd risen for the day.

"What?" he asked in clearly confused amusement. She felt his smile against her own.

"You'll get sex no matter what," she laughed softly.

His smile broadened. "You're a woman of your word. I like it."

With a soft hum, she gave him a soft kiss then whispered, "Think I can get you naked?"

"Do bears—"

Knowing where he was going with that answer, she cut him off with another kiss, laughing even as she did, because he laughed. Her heart leapt at the degree of happiness it communicated.

Easing back, she looked at him, her feelings a perfect reflection of his.

"You're happy." It was a breathless, besotted whisper and she didn't care.

"Yeah," he agreed, still smiling.

She hummed, "Me, too"

His eyes were so clear in that moment and she saw his heart. She saw his happiness for her. _For me._

"House," she breathed in wonder.

He brought his hand up and touched her cheek. She trembled and shut her eyes when he slowly leaned in and trailed warm kisses along her neck. He nuzzled as he went then made his way to her ear. There, just there, he whispered _the words_ again. They rushed across her skin and through her heart.

She said them, too, then whispered, "Make love with me."

He leaned back and his gaze darted to her mouth then back to meet her eyes. _So vulnerable. So _everything_ that everyone would deny him capable of._

"Yeah," he nodded and gathered her close to him with his arms. "Yeah," he repeated then proceeded to do just that, starting with a passionately tender kiss that robbed her of her breath and awareness of anything beyond him and them.

It was perfect.

And they were happy.


	32. Chapter 32

Just a heads up to readers: I have some changes ahead on the home front that my further impede my time to write. I do still plan to write because it is a great stress reliever for me and I enjoy it immensely, however, I will not be posting multiple parts all that often for a while. Please cross your fingers, say a prayer, or whatever you do for good fortune and blessings, that things will resettle for me so I can devote more time to my stories.

Now, onto the part: It takes place after events in the episode "Last Resort" but takes into account the change in House and Cuddy's relationship in this story, in how that would affect their responses in the aftermath.

* * *

**Part 32**

A desperate patient with a gun…

Hostages, in her office, one shot…

S.W.A.T. teams in her hospital…

An MRI machine destroyed…

Remy Hadley in ICU…

Her office in ruins…

A makeshift whiteboard on the wall…

Blood on the carpet…

Broken furniture…

Her desk drawer upside down, contents now all over the floor…

"That's just great," she groused and stared him down where he stood, across the room where the carpet began at the entrance to her inner office. She held the empty drawer in her hands.

"This is why you were in here?" It was a stupid question; of course it's why he'd been in her office. They might be lovers now, but he was still House.

He had the good graces to look a little sheepish, but she caught a glint of amusement in those blue eyes. His reply, however, wasn't even close to being amused. If anything, he conveyed solemn relief.

"It would have been you." The thought clearly troubled him — as much as the reality of him being in danger had troubled her.

She had been frightened for everyone, staff and patients, but she would be lying if she didn't admit to herself that his involvement had heightened the feeling. His fate had been a paramount concern, right or wrong, but somehow she'd managed to keep her emotions under tight rein throughout the ordeal. Now they were threatening to surface again as her irritation over his prank subsided and she looked at him.

_It had been him._

He'd tried to keep everyone alive — albeit in _his_ way, according to others — and diagnose his patient while under the _literal_ gun. He'd been shot before in her hospital, by another lunatic. Two bullets, point blank that very nearly killed him. That image had been in her mind off and on throughout today's incident.

She wondered how he felt about it all. His expression gave away nothing beyond what she'd seen already, but he had to be feeling _something _beyond speculation of how circumstances might have been reversed.

Setting the drawer aside, she made her way over to him, navigating around the scattered stationery that had once been in her drawer then the mess beyond her desk. She took in the carnage once more, stepping around broken wood and glass that littered the way, and the bloodstains which were still fresh enough to have not turned rust-brown in color.

When she reached him, she searched his eyes, looking for exactly what she didn't know. The blue depths hid as much as they revealed, making her long to touch him. But the doors behind him were the clear glass ones that bore her name, leaving them too exposed if they were going to continue to keep secret the change in their relationship. A part of her was ready to throw caution to the wind, another one wasn't. He picked up on the latter.

"I'm okay," he said as he dipped his head a little and looked at her from under his brow. The movement was something he did when he was being wholly honest. She liked that she knew that, and that he'd known she needed assurances.

After finishing up the necessary paperwork and attending the emergency board meeting the day's events had spawned, she went to his place. She wasn't in a particularly good mood when she arrived. On the drive over, the stress of everything, personal and professional, turned into a smoldering cauldron.

She'd been furious when one of the board members suggested what'd happened was the final straw and they should be rid of House once and for all. Thankfully, he didn't gain any traction on the stance. Wilson had spoken up, relating to them the details provided by the other hostages, House's team and Thirteen.

The board ultimately concluded that House was House, but that he'd generally kept a cool head in the crisis, acted on his Hippocratic oath by taking care of his patient, and tried to maintain the safety of the hostages as he did so.

That decision still hadn't stopped her from being angry at the idiot who suggested it. Or angry that the board had felt the need to hear a debate at all. Her bias over House aside, the blame for what happened belonged squarely on the shoulders of the man who had the gun, no one else. Period.

That's what she told the board in no uncertain terms, and it was more or less what she convey'd to House when he opened the door to his apartment and asked her if she was angry.

"Yes, but not at you," she said as she stepped inside. She set her purse on the desk in his living room then shrugged off her coat. He took it and hung it on the rack near the door.

"The board?"

"Yeah," she sighed as she fished in her purse for her phone.

"Do I still have a job?"

The question was asked somewhat flippantly. He was never surprised that someone called for his dismissal; someone almost always did if he was involved in _anything_. The facetiousness indicated he already knew the answer; her mood would be entirely different if that'd happened.

Pulling out the phone and setting it beside her purse for easy access, she looked over at him. He was limping his way toward her.

"You're safe."

Her answer encompassed more than his job and triggered the emotions associated with his mortal existence. He was safe, alive and well, and she no longer had to resist the desire to touch him. Once he was within reach, she did just that, the first contact causing her heart to flutter wildly.

"I was afraid…" she told him, her voice trailing off giving away what she was feeling as much as her words. She eased her arms around him and kissed his chest, her breath further warming the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

The gentle weight of his hands on her shoulders sparked a heat that spread through _her_ like wildfire. When she leaned into him, he smoothed palms and fingers down over her back and pulled her closer still.

She loved when he propped his head atop hers and when he eventually shifted to look at her. Her breath caught when he bowed and brushed his lips against hers.

"Hungry?" he asked against her mouth.

She drew her hands down his body to his sides and them up under the hem of his shirt. She touched his lower back and gave him her answer.

"No."

He eased back, looked at her for the span of a heartbeat then kissed her again.

They ate supper later.


	33. Chapter 33

**Part 33**

Nightmares.

He rarely had them, at least not when sleeping. His waking hours on the other hand, were full of nightmares, of all varieties. Of course, those nightmares were things most people considered minor annoyances.

Sitting on the side of his bed in the dark, his mind was sifting through the dregs of the dream imagery that had just assailed him, warped visions of events of the day previous. His skin was damp with sweat. He could feel it even on his eyelids when he blinked. He'd always found it a weird sensation and now was no different.

"You okay?"

A gentle touch to his back accompanied the question. He shivered at the light caress of her cool digits. Both the sound of her voice and that physical connection grounded him, dissolving the residual dreamscape and bringing him fully back to the present.

_That was unexpected. _

He took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. "Yeah."

Her fingers stilled then touched his hip. He looked back over his shoulder at her. Her eyes were open and on him. When she blinked the slight shine of them disappeared and reappeared. Her features were only hinted at in the shadows. He wondered if they were still soft with sleep or if she was frowning.

He delayed satisfying his curiosity but touched her hand briefly before rising and limping to the bathroom. In the dark, he located a cloth and wet it in the sink with cool water. As he drew the cloth along his neck, he noted a movement from the bed and looked to see her rising.

When she reached him, she took the cloth from him and he surrendered it and the task to her. He stood silent and still, watching her. He could see her better now. She wasn't frowning, but she wasn't smiling either. She hadn't smiled really since she'd come to his place earlier.

She'd been afraid. Even if she hadn't told him, he would have known. He had known in the midst of the chaos. He had been afraid and told her so when she paused and asked, looking up at him when she did.

"Were you afraid?" Her voice was hushed.

He matched her tone. "Yeah."

"You dreamed about it," she observed.

"Yeah," he answered once more.

She rinsed and rewet the cloth before easing around behind him. She drew the damp fabric over his back in long, smooth strokes, from his shoulders down to his waist. He caught his reflection in the mirror and noted that he could not see her — except for the fingers of her right hand, which were curled gently over his shoulder. She was so much smaller than him. That appealed to him in the most primal male sense.

_Everything about her appeals._

"Do you want to talk about it?"

It was asked tentatively and he supposed in the past, or in the light of day, he might have been less than gracious in his response. But in the near darkness, he found his voice matched the hush of night when he told her he didn't. He wasn't sure he would ever want to talk about it and hoped she understood. At the very least, he needed time to square it away for himself. He'd hated every moment of it, and he'd been afraid, which is why he'd focused on the puzzle.

Others probably had cursed him for it already, condemning him for endangering everyone else for the answer. But the way he'd seen it, giving the patient the diagnosis he needed would de-escalate the situation faster than anything, especially after the initial attempt to incapacitate the gunman had failed. Then there was Thirteen — she'd supported him every step of the way and more. If she'd died, or any of the others… If Cuddy had been in her office and not him…

Turning slowly, he looked at the her looking up at him. He didn't have to see her face clearly to know that she was worried. The touch of her left hand to his chest as she tossed the cloth into the sink with the right, conveyed it.

Compassion. Empathy. Understanding. He had received little of those in his life, especially since the infarction. In some respects, he had only himself to blame. In others, he didn't understand why. His father and mother…

"Do you want to make love?"

At that quiet query, he pushed aside thoughts of the past, recent and distant, and sought to thank the beautiful woman in front of him for giving him those things, even when he didn't deserve them.

Bowing, he eased his arms around her and grazed her lips with his own. He felt her tremble and welcomed her when she moved incrementally closer to him, just enough for her breasts to contact his chest. Her nipples were hard beneath the little nightshirt she wore. He wanted to see them.

With infinite gentleness, he curled his fingers into the hem of her shirt and slowly drew the soft cotton up her body. She lifted her arms for him to remove the garment. That gentle surrender did things to his heart. It exposed him, made him vulnerable, but he felt safe to be that with her.

He dropped the fabric to the floor as her hands found his chest. She rested each atop his pectorals then leaned in and nuzzled against him. Her breath was soft and warm, as were the kisses she grazed along his sternum.

"I'm glad you're okay," she whispered against his skin.

He remembered her expressing the same sentiment earlier, but it was no less genuine to his ears now. He was glad to be okay, too. Things could have played out very differently.

He covered her hands with his then drew them away from his body. She looked up at him then did what he'd hope she would do:

Lead them back to bed.

There, beneath the covers, in the still of night, they made quiet, gentle love.


	34. Chapter 34

**Part 34**

_It can't be casual._

The words were written on the piece of paper that sat atop several takeout menus in a clearly fake patient folder. She'd handed it to him when he passed through the clinic.

He'd taken it despite his instinct to refuse. Something in her eyes had told him it was important, so he'd accepted it with a characteristic-but-feigned protest, which she'd countered with a wave of equally feigned nonchalance.

But her thoughts clearly weren't nonchalant if she'd chosen to begin their workday with the opening volley to _the talk_. Her choice of words was interesting, considering they'd been seriously involved for more than a month, which made him wonder if she was either giving him, her, or both of them a way out, if they wanted it.

After how they'd spent the early morning hours, he wouldn't have thought she was thinking about getting out or that he wanted out. Frankly, the possibility hadn't been on the table for him since that third night, maybe even since the first. He entertained the possibility that something had happened after she left for work but he couldn't think of anything that would have made her skittish at this point.

The thought that something might have and that he'd missed it preoccupied him throughout the day. He attracted Wilson's attention, of course, and the oncologist promptly invited himself to lunch and proceeded to practice his usual armchair psychology.

Apprehension was displaced by irritation as House fended off Wilson's questions as caustically as he could manage while still remaining civil, in his own way. Eventually his friend threw up his hands in defeat and went to take care of some cancer kid or something, leaving House to his thoughts.

He was glad of the reprieve and turned his thoughts inward again, sifting through memories, searching for any clue he might have missed. But all his mind supplied were images of cream-colored skin, blue-gray eyes dusky with desire, red lips swollen and damp, dark curls spread across his groin … and recollections of the intangibles, the feelings — passion, love, and contentment.

_Why the hell would I want to give that up? Why would she?_

He could think of no logical reason either of them would run away from what they'd found and nurtured to its present state. Happiness was too elusive. Peace was too elusive. Sane people don't throw things like that away, although he readily admitted to himself that he wasn't always the picture of perfect mental health.

But he was better.

With the shelving of expectations and _the talk_, he'd found an unexpected sense of safety and security in being with her. In keeping things private, he'd found loving her and being loved by her surprisingly uncomplicated. He hadn't felt the need to push her away, like he had in those initial moments of that first night. He hadn't felt the need to do something stupid to wreck it, either.

No, he was happy, for the first time in a long time, and wasn't sure he'd ever been _as_ happy. But those weren't new observations. Nor was the fact that he loved her and wanted to be with her.

If her note was meant to give him a way out, he wasn't interested in taking it. If she wanted out, he'd just have to convince her otherwise.

As he focused on finishing off Wilson's abandoned fries, he halfway smirked at the thought of what tactics he'd use to make his case then frowned when his cell rang. He answered expecting to hear one of his team but heard her voice instead.

"Where are you?"

Judging by her tone she was calling for a reason — a personal one based on the hint of apprehension in her voice. He worried that he might convey a hint of his own anxiety when he replied.

"Eating Wilson's fries."

"He still with you?" More apprehensive than before but not unexpected at the mention of Wilson.

He shoved another fry in his mouth and spoke around it. "He couldn't handle my sunny disposition."

Silence greeted his response, making him regret his choice of words. He didn't want her to think he was in a bad mood, because he wasn't. He was just…

"It's not casual," he said softly, the words suddenly there along with an intense need to put her at ease. That had become a habit, one that he wouldn't have thought himself capable of developing but that he couldn't imagine being without now. Not where she was concerned.

"I know" came her voice from the other end of the line, just as soft as his own voice had been.

Her vulnerability made him feel exposed. He glanced from under his brow to see if anyone was watching him — they weren't — before asking her where she was.

"My office."

"Meet me on the roof?" he asked.

She said "yes" and she did, her eyes catching his as soon as he limped his way through the door. She looked at him a moment before stepping out of view, between a pair of brick and mortar barriers that separated some damned equipment. For all the times he'd been up to the roof, he'd never been curious enough to find out. And he wasn't now.

He followed her, his heart doing insane things in his chest while his groin began to ache with want of her. For him, love and desire came hand in hand where she was concerned. And he thought for her, too, when she pulled him to her once he was within reach.

Her fingers folding behind his head, she searched his gaze then drew him down and into a kiss that was intensely loving. They never kissed at work like _this_, where someone might learn their secret. They'd stolen quick pecks here and there, in her office or the stairwell, or on his office balcony in the middle of the night, but not kisses that conveyed the depths of what they felt and expressed when they were alone.

When she pulled her mouth from his, she kept him close and touched their brows.

"I don't know why I gave you the note today," she whispered. "All that I could think about this morning was you … us … and that I didn't want to lose this."

Her confession did things to him. Nice things.

"Me either," he told her honestly. "I like it," he said and frowned. The words didn't exactly accurately reflect how he felt. They were too weak. But he took hope that he hadn't made a fool of himself or offended her when she let out a soft laugh and echoed his sentiment.

She eased back and he looked at her. She moved her hand to touch his cheek, her gaze growing serious as she stroked his whiskers.

"Did I scare you?"

He shook his head. He hadn't been scared. Just surprised. Then introspective. With some anxiety.

"I scared myself," she said then changed tack. "I want to go away for the weekend. My sister and her husband bought a timeshare in some place up in the Adirondacks. We can fly up tonight."

"You've already talked to her," he observed and netted a knowing smile.

"We'll have it to ourselves. We can eat out—"

"You don't want anyone to know yet," he interrupted her.

She lowered her hand and rested it on his chest. Her gaze followed when she asked, "Does it bother you?"

No. It didn't. And he told her that, and that he didn't want anyone to know either. Not yet.

"I'm not ashamed or afraid," she told him as her fingers toyed with a button on his shirt. "But I like that it's just ours."

Her gaze returned to his, clearly searching to see if he felt the same. He did.

"I know," he said, reaching to catch a tendril of her hair as it danced on the breeze.

"So we'll go?" she asked.

There was so much hope in her expression that he wouldn't disappoint her. But he would play a game.

"Sell me on it," he challenged.

Her eyes sparkled with a familiar light. She cocked her jaw in a completely unnecessary attempt to half-hide her smile, telling him she was fully engaged. He loved that.

"Fresh air," she began, "Mountains, tall trees, and a lake. A four-star restaurant with appropriate menu options for a carnivore."

He smirked and listened as she continued.

"A private deck with a view. A fireplace in the bedroom. A comfortable bed with soft sheets. And me … to fulfill _all_ your desires of the flesh, and otherwise."

Loving _all_ that, especially the last ones, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers with a whisper.

"Sold."


	35. Chapter 35

**Part 35**

She held his hand.

Since they'd landed at the small regional airport in the mountains of northern New York, she had reached for him at every opportunity.

He loved the way her fingers laced and locked comfortably with his. He loved the feel of her skin against his, in public. It was a commonplace connection to onlookers, but deceptively powerful to the participants — or at least it could be. He hadn't considered how strongly he would feel about being with her openly, without worry, but he couldn't help but think about it now.

_It wouldn't feel like this in Princeton._

Expectations were there, of coworkers and Wilson, which meant complications both real and fabricated by those who believed they had vested interests in something that was none of their business. There, every word, look, or action would be scrutinized to the point of insanity. Which is why they were continuing to protect what they'd found. The second others knew, things would change. He wasn't ready for that and neither was she.

As they stepped out of the resort's main lodge and into the cool, night air, he found himself happy that they'd come. Romantic getaways weren't his thing, although he was more sentimental than some would guess, but he was enjoying this time with her, away from the multitude of distractions that their lives brought.

_I have her to myself_, he mused and smiled at the thought as they made their way toward their accommodations.

They were nice, higher end that he'd expected. He wondered what the hell her brother-in-law did for a living to rate clearly expensive digs, even as a timeshare. He'd started to ask her earlier, but his analytical mind took the night off when she came out of the bathroom wearing jeans that were perfectly fitted to her amazing ass.

Said ass was currently hidden beneath the tail of her coat, but if he had his way, it'd be bared to his touch soon. Until then, he satisfied himself with the feeling her hip brush against him from time to time as they walked.

"Someone's self-satisfied."

He cast a glance over and down at her as they walked. She was smirking at him, not an ounce of coyness to be seen.

He looked ahead again even as he leaned his head down and said, "Someone's thinking about your ass."

He didn't quite whisper it but stressed the "s" sound on ass. It amused her because he heard that little hum she made at the back of her throat.

"You're an ass," she said, bumping him lightly with her elbow.

He wondered if there was something wrong with him that he liked when she called him that. _Almost_ every time.

As they continued their journey, he eyed the wooden planks of the lighted walkway ahead, preparing mentally to calculate exactly the timing of the first steps and placement of his cane tip to make the rest of the trip without faltering. The math was easy enough to figure but it assumed the carpenter had used his tools correctly in constructing the path.

He frowned when he considered that not everyone took pride in their work, but tried not to dwell on it. A gentle squeeze of Cuddy's hand to his was enough to bring his attention back to where it belonged — _her_.

"How was your steak?" she asked softly.

"Good," he said.

"You know, they deliver breakfast."

He continued to mentally measure his steps even as he cut a look at her. She was smirking up at him again.

"I deliver breakfast _in bed._ If requested," he countered.

She snorted, the sound one of humor that held the slightest note of disgust. But she continued to play along.

"How about _eating_ breakfast in bed?" she baited and he loved it.

"Breakfast, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper," he said proudly.

He didn't have to look at her to know she was smiling with fiendish delight. "So pretty much any meal then?"

"Yep," he said cheerfully. "So long as you're the meal."

And he meant that wholeheartedly. She let out another hum, this one communicating something more than humor. It was the one that said: _I want you, House_. Or that's what he liked to think it said. It might _say_ something equally flattering for all he knew. He just knew it was a good sound.

So were the soft, little ones she made when he kissed her just inside the condo. She leaned back against the wall and he set his cane aside. He pressed his body close to hers while their mouths engaged in lush, lingering kisses.

He made sounds, too, a particularly needy one when she eased her hand between them and cupped his erection. His jeans were painfully tight against his length, and growing tighter beneath her adept touch.

"For me?" she breathed against his mouth.

He loved the possessiveness the question conveyed.

"Yeah," he rasped. _As if it could be for anyone else._

At her urging, they eased apart and made their way to the bedroom. It was just off the main room and had the same view from the large windows. He barely took notice of it except for the moonlight that poured inside, making everything seem ethereal. Especially her.

She undressed for him after helping him shed his leather jacket. He sat on the side of the bed and watched her slip garment after garment from her body and drop each to the floor. She was a silhouette, haloed by the light of Earth's lone natural satellite. Where it touched her, her skin glowed a pale blue.

_Otherworldly. _

She definitely looked that as she approached him and placed her hands on his knees. He obeyed when she pressed and urged him to widen his stance to better accommodate her. There was no reason to disobey.

He could see her face despite it being hidden in shadow, the light not bright enough to require his eyes make a major adjustment. Her features were soft with desire and affection. She was looking at him as if he'd hung the moon in the sky. Or maybe that's what he wanted to believe, and her to believe — but not for ego's sake.

He loved her and the romantic notion of giving her said moon, if he had the power, crossed his usually logical mind. But much as he wished he could give her the heavens, all he could really give her was himself, screwed up as he was, and his rusty, out-of-practice heart.

So he did, kissing and caressing her reverently, making love to her with a quiet passion after his clothes were shed. She accepted his offering and he felt her give herself to him. It was in every touch and kiss and movement of her body with his.

Overwhelmed, he declared his love for her just before he came, and heard it said in return.


	36. Chapter 36

**Part 36**

The fire crackled and sizzled.

House had kindled it at her request, then lay down on the blanket she'd spread on the floor, a safe distance from the hearth.

"You do realize how cliche this is?" he said as he stretched out naked as the day he was born.

"I know," she replied as she moved to join him. "But I've always wanted to make love in front of a fireplace."

He took the pillow she offered him. "You never have?"

"No." She blushed with her confession even as she adored the devilish gleam that lit his gaze, shining brighter than the reflection of the flames.

"Okay. But you're on top," he said as he raised his head and shoved the pillow beneath, positioning it for his comfort.

"Ass," she laughed softly and playfully swatted him across the midsection with her pillow.

He looked shocked then chided, "Watch it, woman. Any lower and your cheesy fantasy will be over before it begins."

"Good thing I know how to revive him," she blatantly teased as she dropped her pillow into place next to him.

"You're a naughty woman. I like it," he asserted with a little grin.

She snorted as she started to settle on her side. She was prepared to lay her head on her pillow but he extended his arm before she could. She happily accepted the invitation to be close to him. She laid her head on his upper arm and snuggled against his side, sighing softly as she did.

As they lay quietly, her thoughts turned to memories of the morning and what had led her to giving him the note declaring her feelings on their relationship.

It hadn't been anything earth shattering, no sudden revelation, or a building decision. In actuality, the impetus had been simple: pairs of things.

It had started with the sight of his motorcycle next to her car in the garage, and the two helmets on the shelf near the bike.

_His and hers._

Then she'd thought about the pair of toothbrushes in the cup on her bathroom counter, and the two razors, and his aftershave next to her perfume. The two empty wine glasses by the kitchen sink. The blue, long-sleeved shirt in the closet, touching a blue power suit. Sneakers haphazardly laying next to perfectly aligned pumps. And then she'd thought how the situation was mirrored at his apartment.

Their lives had blended beyond the professional without any plans being made.

She hadn't asked him to bring a toothbrush, but he'd brought one at some point and there it was. She couldn't remember when he did and it didn't matter. Same with her leaving a makeup kit under his sink and putting several bra and panties sets in the drawer next to his underwear.

They had just _happened_. And when she thought on it during her drive to work, she'd realized she didn't want it to _unhappen_.

So she'd written the note and put it in the plain folder atop takeout menus she'd found at the clinic admit desk. She'd nearly chickened out on giving it to him but she'd found the courage in the memory of how they'd made love that morning, maintaining intimate eye contact through it all.

She'd seen his love for her so clearly. It was strong and passionate and tender, and her affection for him was a perfect reflection of it, as was her vulnerability.

He was such a different man than she'd let herself believe, consciously, and yet subconsciously she'd always had a sense of him, of the parts of him he hid behind the sarcasm and irascibility. It's why she'd tolerated so much and felt the need to be there for him whenever no one else was. It's why she'd asked him to stay that night, after the biggest heartbreak of her life. It's why she'd been both surprised and not that he had.

Which is how she felt about where they were now.

Left alone to nurture long-held feelings and long-denied attraction, love had taken root, deeply and passionately, and neither of them was questioning the veracity of it or the exact nature of it. Which is why what they had was not and never could be casual.

She loved him ardently and quietly, and all the degrees in between, and she was committed to it never being less than that.

"I love you."

It wasn't the first time she said it and it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't even said with more or less feeling than any time before. But it was said with full awareness of what it meant for them beyond the moment.

Her heart fluttered when he repeated it, his tone communicating the significance of it for him.

Smoothing her hand across his chest, she addressed a subject she'd been trying very hard to not think about.

"Do we just keep … doing what we're doing?" she asked tentatively and received the expected response.

"Unless you're considering gender reassignment. But if it's you…"

She gave him a long-suffering smile when she shifted to look up at him.

"You know what I mean."

His amusement faded to solemnity. And certainty.

"Yes."

She started to ask why he was so sure, if it was his experience with Stacy or if it were something else, but he supplied an explanation before she could.

"Planning leads to expectations. Expectations end in disappointment."

She didn't disagree. Her spotty and unsuccessful dating life was proof of that, and to so many other matters in life. But her nature was to plan. She would have reminded him of that but he spoke again, as if reading her mind.

"Some things can't and shouldn't be planned, Cuddy," he said softly. "They are what they are."

Reminded of an old song, she smiled. "Que Sera Sera," she said softly.

"Let it be what it will be," he said, putting his own twist on the translation.

_That's what we've been doing_, she mused. It's what he clearly wanted to continue and so did she. The freedom of it had been, well, freeing for her. But she feared her own nature might conspire against them eventually, especially once they were outed, and the expectations of others came into play.

"I want that," she confessed. "But how long can we realistically keep hiding this? What I feel for you…"

She shook her head, unable to even put into words what was in her mind and heart.

"I used to avoid you," he said when her voice trailed off. "Now I make excuses to see you."

She smiled. "I've noticed … even the times you're just watching."

He looked away shyly and her heart skipped a beat. She loved when he did that, and how he traced his fingertips along her upper arm. She shivered beneath the delicate touch.

"We're on borrowed time with Wilson," he said after a moment. "The others won't be far behind."

"You don't trust him to keep our confidence?" she asked, frowning. She knew Wilson was trustworthy but apparently House didn't think so in this. He'd said his friend was a meddler and gossip, neither of which she could deny but—

"He won't do it intentionally," House said, his gaze returning to hers. "But he'll be so self-satisfied that he'll let it slip."

"Self-satisfied?"

"Before … he's been after me for a while to pursue things with you."

Even though he hadn't specifically mentioned Joy, she still felt an ache in her heart at even the vague reference to the lost child. She reached for the humor in what she shared with him next.

"He was lobbying your case, too," she said, caressing his chest.

He smiled at that but then the expression went from knowing to fiendish. "We should probably have a crash cart ready for when he finds out."

She laughed softly, picturing the likely reaction of their friend. He wouldn't faint or have an MI, but he would be stunned at first, silent. His jaw would probably drop, then he'd open and close his mouth like a fish until he was able to form a sentence, probably of only one or two words at first. Then he'd grill them both, together and separately, for details.

But then others would want them when word got out. They would be fodder for the gossip mill and there was no way to avoid it and the challenges it would bring to them personally and professionally.

"What?"

The question was accompanied by a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. Her lover's bright blue eyes conveyed concern, making her realize she was frowning again.

"When everyone finds out…"

"We'll deal with it," he said and a part of her was stunned with how confident he was, especially about something so personal. In the past, he would have been a basket-case of anxiety over the issue. She felt like one when she considered the ramifications and what formalities awaited them professionally.

"We'll have to go to HR," she pointed out.

He frowned and she saw a brief flare of anxiety and felt a little better, which was twisted. She didn't want him upset, but she also didn't want to be the only one worried about it. It was selfish. Instead of worrying about being alone with it, she should have anchored herself with him, the steadier ground, instead of chasing the white rabbit.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, sliding her hand up to caress his jaw. "HR is a formality, just paperwork, but every time I think about us becoming public…"

"I know things are different for you," he continued. "I don't care what they think about me but your position requires you to care. And my reputation isn't exactly a good one to tack on."

She raised up onto her elbow and shook her head. Her thoughts hadn't gone there. It wasn't what she was talking about.

"I don't care about that," she said and she didn't. "It's just that everyone knowing … it will complicate things."

His fingers slid slowly down across her back, following the line of her shoulder blade, causing gooseflesh to rise.

"But it doesn't have to complicate _us_," he countered. "We can't control what people think or say, but we have a say in how it affects us."

There was wisdom in his words, and experience, making her wonder if he and Stacy had faced similar things at some point in their relationship. But she didn't ask.

"We have control of that," she said, understanding him even though she knew it would probably be easier said than done at times.

"The biggest challenges always come from within," he said, as if reading her thoughts. "We know each other's weaknesses and faults. You know mine. Some things we can expect to face. But the most difficult things will arise when least expected and in unexpected forms."

_The infarction and Stacy's decision to overrule his medical choice. _It had destroyed them.

"Trust," she found herself whispering.

She watched him smile fondly at her and his other hand came up to cover hers where it rested against his cheek. He held it there.

"We trust this," he said. "We protect it from the inside out. The rest of the world can go screw itself."

She smiled at that.

"Okay."


	37. Chapter 37

**Part 37**

A cup of coffee awaited her when she came out of the bedroom, courtesy of the man standing at the stove making breakfast.

She smiled at the sight. She would have thought he'd call for room service but he'd apparently raided the cabinets. Oatmeal was on, she gathered, spying the canister next to him.

As she edged up to the tall, dining bar and slipped her fingers around the handle of the cup, she drank in the sight of him. He was rumpled from his t-shirt to his pajama pants that hung haphazardly from his hips, and his hair was sticking out in all directions. The latter was the result of sleep and her fault, well, partly. She couldn't keep her fingers out of his hair when he went down on her, which he'd done not too long ago. The man had an amazing appetite for sex. But then again, so did she.

"Good morning," she said, as she lifted the cup to her lips. Her breath disturbed the curls of steam languidly rising from the hot liquid.

He was smirking when he glanced back over his shoulder at her. "_Again._ Good morning _again_."

She hummed softly in amusement and sipped her coffee while he finished up. She loved watching him, even when he knew she was watching. Despite the injury to his leg, he still moved with an innate grace. She wondered if it was because of the years of sports or if it was his love of music, if the notes and bars had infused him physically.

_Or maybe I'm just smitten this morning_, she mused as he poured the oatmeal into two bowls.

She smiled at him when he brought them to the bar. He set one in front of her and the other beside, then retrieved spoons and his coffee. She set her cup aside and watched him come around to join her. No cane, he limped slowly, careful not to spill the hot drink.

He nodded to the stool beside her. "Sit."

She did as he instructed and he took up the one beside her, and they ate quietly until he asked her what she wanted to do for the day.

"I honestly have no idea."

She hadn't considered what they might actually do beyond eating and sleeping and sex. She blushed at the thought and he observed her with a rakish gleam in his eyes. Of course, he knew; it's probably the exact same thing he'd thought about.

"Jerk," she laughed softly and watched him grin before taking another bite of his oatmeal.

As she ate, she considered their options. It was a lake resort and the weather was still warm enough to go out and enjoy that, but some activities were out with his leg. Not that she wanted to do them but it bothered her that he might but couldn't.

Lunch at the lodge or someplace in the small town outside the resort area might be nice. She'd call the lodge and get information on that. In the meantime…

"We could go antiquing," she suggested and waited for the inevitable Housian response.

"Another cliche? In less than twelve hours. I'm surprised at you, Cuddy."

It was exactly what she'd expected. She glanced at him. "Would you prefer bear baiting?"

"You did that this morning," he said then gestured to himself and then her with his coffee cup. "Bear. Bait."

She snorted and would have elbowed him if he hadn't been holding hot liquid.

"Ass."

He leaned back and made of show of peering at her backside.

"Jackass," she expounded.

"Nice ass," he replied when he sat upright again.

She cocked her jaw and shook her head. "Nice save."

He winked at her then resumed eating. God, she loved him.

After breakfast, they dressed and made their way outside. The trails were rough, so they avoided them, but there was one smoother path that led down to the lake. They took that and it deposited them at a large deck on the water. There were chairs in groupings for socializing. They were largely empty, only a handful of folks scattered around drinking coffees and eating breakfast. A pair of the lodge wait staff was making the rounds for orders.

Upon seeing the chairs, her lover reached into his jacket and pulled out the morning newspaper, which he'd picked up at the lodge then tightly rolled and put away. "You can have the fashion section," he said and headed toward a pair of chairs. She followed him, amused at the playful expression he shot her.

He was happy. And that made her happiness happier, if there was such a thing.

She joined him, sinking down into the cushioned chair next to his. He handed her the fashion section, as promised, along with the business and society sections and everything else but entertainment and sports, which he kept for himself.

It was peaceful just sitting out in the crisp, clean air, no sounds of traffic or bustle of humanity. There was only the occasional disturbance of water by fish or birds, the breeze and rustling leaves, and soft murmurs of conversations floating around.

_And the turning of paper pages_.

Looking over at House, she noted he'd brought his reading glasses. He didn't wear them often and she thought they looked good on him. They also made him look more intelligent, impossible as that seemed even to her.

_Intelligence is sexy_, she mused, her eyes really taking him in.

He looked good, more relaxed than she'd seen him in ages. He had been that way for weeks now, each day seeming to ease more. She was so glad for him and that she was a part of it. He certainly played a part in her contentment. His opening up to her had made it possible for her to open up to him. She couldn't imagine that not having happened, not being with him here, now, in love and committed to being with him.

Last night, they hadn't covered everything, but they'd really talked, about them, and what was on the horizon. She'd come out the other side of the conversation strengthened, by and with him, and it was an interesting place to be for her.

She didn't have relationships — she had attempts at relationships that usually only lasted a few dates — but she was in one now, with the last person in the world anyone would expect. But they were together, and it was deeper and more fulfilling than she could have ever imagined it being. She was grateful and felt incredibly blessed and—

"Wanna take a train ride?"

The question made her smile. He hadn't looked up from the paper when he asked.

"What train?"

"There's a scenic rail line," he said, eyes continuing to skim the page in front of him.

As far as she knew, he'd never been here, just as she hadn't, so she wondered how he knew. "How do you know?"

"Brochures at the lodge." It was said almost absently. "The train runs between here and Utica through the _wilderness_. Makes stops in a few places."

She liked the idea of that. A nature "walk" that he could do, that they could do together in comfort, with chances to get out and look around.

"Let's do it," she said and he finally looked at her, amusement coloring his features.

"Okay."


	38. Chapter 38

**Part 38**

She had beautiful lines and curves. He wanted to run his hands along them, just for the joy of feeling them.

But he wasn't stupid.

He wasn't about to do it with the 200-pound, tattooed, and leather-clad owner of the black and chrome Softail Fat Boy standing not ten feet away. No, he was just drooling from a foot away, wondering—

"See something you like?"

He smiled at the question from his lover. After eating, she'd gone to the ladies' room and he'd ventured out for a closer look at the Harley that'd pulled up while they'd dined. They had a couple hours before they caught the train again, back to the lodge.

"Would you ride it?" he asked.

"I ride that missile of yours and this looks like it'd be more comfortable."

"It would be," he said, explaining, "It's a cruiser."

Her hand slipped into the bend of his elbow. The leather creaked with the gentle pressure of her grip.

"Have you ever owned one?"

He again admired the sweet slope of the rear fender and the little flare on the edge.

"Nope. Never my style." And it hadn't been. He'd aways liked the naked power and speed of a sportbike.

"Is it now?"

Her tone was serious, prompting him to look over at her. Her attention was on the bike, her gaze gliding along the same lines he'd been admiring. It pleased him that she was interested. If she hadn't been in such a distracted state that day he first took her for a ride, he doubted he could have talked her into getting on his Repsol. But she had and he hadn't had to talk her into it since. She seemed to enjoy it when they went for a ride.

"Maybe," he said then looked back at the cruiser and considered that the biggest factor in getting one had nothing to do with taste.

He sized it up, his mind calculating the approximate weight, added her weight and his own to the mix, then gauged what seat height would best allow him to balance the beast on his good leg and still be able to hold it up with his bad one in an emergency.

He didn't like the numbers on the latter and resented them, but his analytical mind began presenting solutions…

_Physical therapy. A brace to—_

"You're really thinking about it," she interrupted his thoughts.

"Yeah," he said, his eyes still on the bike.

"Think it comes in orange?"

That was a tease, prompting him to look at her. She raised an eyebrow at him, making him smile.

"No clue."

"Test drive?" she asked and was serious.

"Don't think Tiny over there would like that too much," he said and waited for the eye roll … _and there it is._

He shot her a wicked grin when she scowled at him and tugged on his arm.

"Come on."

He went but only after taking one more look and making another mental observation: _She'd look good on it._

Crossing the street, they stepped up onto the sidewalk that ran along a picturesque row of shops. It came close to belonging in a Norman Rockwell painting. He didn't find picturesque small-town American as charming as some people did — as Cuddy apparently did.

She was pausing here and there, peeking into the storefront windows. He humored her, even though he had no interest in most of the things. Some he found downright boring, like scented candles.

He did go into an antique shop with her, despite his having given her crap about antiquing earlier. She made him buy an old hat — a black porkpie. He thought the hat was a weird combo with his racing jacket but she said it looked good on him. He wondered if it was payback and set his mind to working on how he could get payback for the payback. He was different with her, but he wasn't going to stop doing outrageous things. She seemed to like them when they didn't involve the destruction of someone, including himself.

He let her lead the way but eased his arm around her when they passed a shop with children's and baby things on display. She didn't say anything, but leaned a little closer to him after that. That wound was going to take time to heal. His heart didn't hurt for most people, but it hurt for her.

Spying a spirits and tobacco shop, he suggested they stop in. He told her he wanted a good scotch to have for later, but she begged out and gestured down the way, toward other stores. Then she ushered him toward where he wanted to go.

"We'll catch up," she told him.

He wasn't sure what to make of the smile she gave him. It communicated _something_, but he couldn't identify it.

Puzzled, he watched her retreating form until she was several dozen feet away then went into the shop. He perused the shelves for a while before he finally made his selection. He considered picking up a box of cigars, too, but decided against it. He only smoked them during poker games, which he hadn't had in a while. But Wilson would ask soon and he'd get them then. Or make Wilson buy them.

_That is a better scenario_, he smiled to himself.

Then he frowned when the man behind the counter didn't put his purchase in the usual plain, brown paper bag, but a fancy bag emblazoned with a gilded logo and handles made from a blue, braided satin cord. It looked weird, even if the scotch wasn't the cheap stuff. He took the sack and headed out of the store, confused as hell as to why society felt the need to _dress up_ everything when said _dress_ was probably going to end up in the trash.

Glancing down the sidewalk, he looked for Cuddy. He didn't see her and she should have been at least headed back this way. Unless something really caught her eye.

He set out to find her but was nearly mowed down a teen-aged boy on a skateboard who came zooming out a narrow alleyway between the buildings. He dodged and his thigh rewarded him with a lancing pain that had him yelling at the kid.

"Cripple here!"

Others yelled after the boy, too, telling him to watch where he was going, but the kid didn't even look back.

"Delinquent," House muttered under his breath and shrugged off the assistance other pedestrians offered. "I'm fine," he said even though he winced with every step he took toward the nearest bench.

He sat, his mood turning foul as the pain took its time in ebbing. It wasn't severe — he actually hadn't had a bad bout in several weeks — but it was enough to have him wishing he'd hurled his cane at the kid.

Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his Vicodin. He set his fancy-bagged booze just under the edge of the bench and took two of the pills — more than he needed — mentally cursing the kid and his leg as he did.

He glanced down the sidewalk, in the direction his companion disappeared as he put the prescription bottle away. Still no sign of her. Not worried, yet, he shifted and stretched his leg out across the length of the bench.

He people-watched while he waited, eventually locking eyes with a pre-schooler on an adjacent bench who began a face-making war. He ignored the kid at first but caved eventually and gave it his all. The kid cracked up and House internally declared him the loser by default.

"That was mature."

It was Cuddy. She was standing at the end of the bench. He'd missed her approach. She looked better, but there was still something not quite what it should be. She was smiling though.

"He started it," he said, pointing toward the kid.

She gave him a long-suffering look then frowned when she looked at his leg. For a moment, he was confused as to why.

_I forgot_. He never did that, not when he was still hurting — and he was.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Near collision with a Tony Hawk wannabe," he said.

"Who?"

"Skateboarder," he replied, snapping up his cane and swinging his leg off the bench. It hurt, but he ignored it best he could as he got to his feet.

As he did, she picked up the bag with his scotch. He noted that she didn't bat an eye at the fancy-schmancy packaging, which didn't really surprise him since she bought stuff that came in bags like that all the time. But she didn't have one now.

"Didn't find anything cool?"

Oh, her smile became wily and she stepped very close to him. Her hand found his and he looked down when she pressed something into his palm.

A key. A room key.

He looked past her and down the sidewalk. He hadn't seen a hotel.

"There's a B&amp;B a few blocks away," she said softly. "I thought…"

Expectant. That's what he'd call the way she was looking at him. He closed his fingers around hers, trapping the key between their palms. Then he smiled.

"I like the way you think."


	39. Chapter 39

**Part 39**

For what she had in mind, he didn't have to put any strain on his leg. All he had to do was lay back and enjoy. And he did. Damn, he enjoyed.

Her mouth was heaven. Or second heaven. That sweet nirvana between her thighs was first heaven. But he could spend a lifetime in either, though he'd prefer both.

She knew exactly what to do to him and how to do it. She controlled him completely. He might fight her for that professionally at times but right now he didn't care. He let her direct his pleasure and when she wanted him to, he surrendered.

After, she came up to lay beside him and drew her fingers through his hair as she nuzzled his cheek. He liked that, the way she touched him and the little smile he felt against his temple just before she kissed him.

He told her he loved her and she moved over him in response. She kissed him thoroughly and softly. His hands staked claim to her back, moving slowly over the slick material of her camisole. He could feel the curves of her beneath.

"Lose the clothes," he murmured against her mouth, desire rekindling. He wanted her but she responded in a way he didn't expect.

She smiled again and whispered, "I'm okay."

Concerned, he eased his mouth from hers and searched her eyes, looking for signs of her earlier disquiet.

"Are you?" he asked softly, a hand coming up to touch her cheek. He felt her tremble slightly at the caress of his fingertips.

Her gaze flickered when she answered with a soft "Yes."

It wasn't a lie but it wasn't exactly the truth either. He started to ask her again, but she shook her head, undoubtedly seeing the question surfacing.

"We need to get back to the station. The train will be back soon."

She started to move from atop him but he didn't let her. He tightened his arm around her waist and fully cupped her jaw with his hand. Tears began to form.

"Cuddy…"

"Please," she said with another shake of her head.

He acceded and let her rise. He took a moment to watch her pull her sweater back on, sitting up only after she'd retreated to the bathroom. He frowned when she shut the door but didn't pursue her. He got to his feet instead and sought out his clothing and redressed.

Moving about caused his leg to hurt again, not worse, but enough to have him digging his Vicodin out of his pocket again. He was in the process of opening the bottle when Cuddy reemerged from the bathroom looking her usual put-together self.

"How bad is it?" she asked with a frown.

"It hurts," he said because he didn't want to answer the question. He shook two of the pills into his hand and swallowed them.

She approached him as he recapped the bottle, touched his chest gently. "We'll make use of the jacuzzi when we get back."

He liked the idea of that, and of getting off his feet. He was not looking forward to walk to the train though, knowing it would exhaust him and sour his mood. And it did both those things.

Cuddy held his hand on the journey and on the ride back to the lodge. It would have probably soothed him, at least some, had the couple behind them not decided to bicker all the way back. He was hurting and they were irritating and when things grew nasty and louder between them, he had to fight the urge to turn around and tell them to throw one another off the train before he threw them both. A gentle squeeze to his hand and a soft whisper of his name had been the only thing between them and certain death by doctor at one point.

"Ignore them," Cuddy had said then rested her head on his shoulder. He'd instinctively leaned his head against hers and shut his eyes, and tried to do as she'd said.

He really tried but the incessant pain, not incapacitating but unrelenting, made it difficult. The couple's arguing was stomping on his last nerve. Their voices were grating, their disagreements petty and blaring in his overactive brain like a megaphone. He reached for his jacket pocket and the Vicodin and if the conductor hadn't called out that they were arriving at the station, he was fairly sure he would have taken the rest of the pills, just to drown them out.

Once they disembarked, he moved as fast as he could manage away from the couple. Cuddy walked silently beside him, but he could feel her eyes on him. He knew she was worried but he didn't want to stop to console her. He wanted distance and quiet.

He had both once they were back at the resort, inside the condo. He stopped her when she reached to turn on the lights. She didn't ask why he wanted it dark, she just moved her hand away from the switch.

He looked at her for the first time since they'd boarded the train and thanked her. Her eyes searched his face in the shadows and she asked him if he was okay.

He didn't know how to answer that question. And she apparently saw that.

She raised her hand again and this time grazed her fingers along his cheek gently but fleetingly before caressing his shoulder.

"I'll go start the water," she said and he felt even more grateful. And like an ass. She'd been hurting earlier, too, and he'd not thought about that at all.

After a moment, he followed her but stopped in the bedroom to undress. He then sat on the side of the bed stark naked and massaged his thigh, grimacing at feeling the tension gathered in what muscles were left in that part of the limb.

A gentle touch to his shoulder had him opening his eyes. She stood beside him, naked as he was.

"Come on," she said, holding her hand out to him, palm up.

He took it and she led him slowly to the tub. He felt the urge to thank her again but he didn't. At least not right away. He waited until he was sitting in the hot, bubbling water and drew her to him. She looked at him with concern when he began guiding her astride him.

"It's okay," he assured her, looking at her directly. "It won't hurt."

And it wouldn't. There were things that hurt his thigh and things that didn't. Her weight, in water, wouldn't, and he'd deal with it if it did. Being close to her was more important.

She conceded after a moment and he eased his arms around her and hands up over her back. He kissed her than laid his head on her shoulder. He shut his eyes when her arms went around him and held him.

She threaded her fingers through his hair and the peace he'd wanted on the train ride found him. He could hear her breaths and heartbeat, and the babbling of the water around them.

The steadiness of them eased his mind and frustration. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so intensely aggravated by the people around him but it was before he went to her home that night.

That thought had him nuzzling closer to her and apologizing to her. Then he told her he loved her, again.

She kissed his brow in response then bowed her head beside his and told him she loved him, too.


	40. Chapter 40

**Part 40**

She woke alone in the early morning hours.

She missed his warmth next to her the instant she was awake and turned her head in search of him. The soft, warm glow from the hearth revealed him sitting in one of the chairs by the window. She spied the bottle of scotch he'd bought earlier in the day and a tumbler beside it. And beside that was the tell-tale shape of a prescription bottle.

The sight of both worried her. The medicine bottle … well, that meant pain, and maybe more. The alcohol virtually confirmed the more.

She supposed she shouldn't be too surprised that he was indulging both. Even though he'd calmed and his pain had eased after they'd returned from their outing and joint bath, he'd been terribly frustrated before.

She hadn't seen him like that in some time and had actually been surprised that he hadn't verbally unloaded on the man and woman who sat behind them on the train. They had irritated her, too, but his frustration had distracted her. He'd steadily gripped her hand tighter the longer the couple had argued.

She'd been relieved when they finally reached their stop, and even more so once they were tucked away for the night. But it was during their bath that they'd both relaxed. He'd let it all go and she'd held him closer when she'd felt it leave him and take her own stress with it.

Afterward, she'd ordered a light supper from the lodge and they'd eaten quietly at the dining table. He'd helped her cleanup then retreated to the bedroom and lit the fire. She'd joined him in bed and they'd lain quietly for a while before sleep took him. Only then had she let herself drift off.

Now she was awake, wondering what was troubling him and more than a little worried that his pain and frustration had returned. She eventually braved asking.

"You okay?"

The air about him seemed to change the instant she spoke. She _felt_ the shift and gained a better sense of his disquiet. It was deep.

"Yeah," he said but didn't look her direction.

She watched him and waited, knowing he would speak again when he was ready. And he did. But his words were _completely_ unexpected, powerful, and heartbreaking. They explained his mood and carried the weight of the world, even if she didn't know why he was saying them now.

"I'm an addict."

It was the first time he'd said it aloud to her, even though they'd both known it for years. The confession stirred deep compassion in her, something she admitted she might not have felt as deeply in the past. But now…

"I know," she said softly.

He went silent again and she continued to watch him, her heart doing crazy things in her chest. She felt an intense desire to go to him but clung to patience and waited for him to take that next step. Because it was his to take.

"I'm better with you," he said after many long minutes, confirming a hope she had vainly entertained.

"The pain is better, most of the time. But I still take the pills," he continued. "Sometimes I need them. Sometimes I just don't want to feel. Sometimes I just want them because they're there."

_Such soul-baring honesty._

"I abuse them," he said and she heard his frustration with himself. She watched him pick up the bottle and spin it between his fingers. Even across the distance, in the night shadows she could tell he was scowling at it.

"I hate them … I hate that I need them," he said and gazed at the bottle for several more moments before throwing it away from him.

The pills clattered within the plastic confines as the bottle sailed through the air. It hit the wall then fell to the carpet with a faint sound.

She ignored them and kept her eyes fixed on him. She again debated going over to him, to see what comfort she could offer, what he would let her give. But he came to her instead, pushing himself up and limping back to the bed.

He avoided eye contact as he neared. He sat on the side of the bed, giving her his profile then looked toward the direction he'd thrown the bottle.

"Those people tonight… I've been like that with you. I've been worse." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I don't want to screw us up," he said then, his voice soft and low but overflowing with emotion.

He looked at her, revealing the vulnerability she heard. His anxieties were on full display, which stirred her own anxieties, ones she'd intentionally ignored until now.

"Me either," she echoed, fearing that her need to micromanage — or any of her other weaknesses — could assert themselves at any time and drive him away from her.

And then there was their history of butting heads, passionately, sometimes cruelly, on both their parts. They hadn't done that in a while but she wasn't foolish enough to believe they would never do it again. And it would be different the next time — it would hurt in a new way and from the how he was looking at her, he knew it.

But in spite of their respective issues, she did believe, as he'd asserted the night before, that they could weather the known and unknown, and the unexpected if they stayed focused. And especially if they remained terribly, brutally honest with each other, about everything. Like he was being now, about his addition.

She reached out to him, extending her hand when she told him that. He took it and nodded before glancing down at their connection. He ran his thumb across her knuckles and his expression changed. She knew why when he spoke again.

"There's a program upstate … I'll need some time."

"However long you need … _whatever_ you need."

She responded without hesitation, even though her breath caught, the needed words there instantly. She gripped his hand tighter and blinked against rapidly welling tears as her heart filled with a quiet joy.

"Thank you," he whispered and she heard the emotion in his voice, and love. She thought maybe he'd thanked her more in the last day than in all the years they'd known each other.

Holding his gaze, she asked a question. "When will you go?"

"Soon as we're back."

_Immediately._ He wasn't waiting and even though it meant he would be away from her, his desire to not delay spoke to his level of commitment. She was so proud of him, and happy for him. _He's struggled so long with this._

"Do you want me to take you?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"I have to do this," he said then added tentatively, "Will you visit?"

She gave him a smile. "Just try keeping me away."

He smiled, too, fondly and gently. "I think I'll decline that challenge."

"Proof there's a first time for everything," she teased then went to him when he gave her fingers a tug.

He caressed her cheek soon as she settled next to him on the side of the bed. His gaze roved over her face before catching hers.

"I'll miss you," he said softly.

"Me, too," she said and a tear finally slipped free. She trembled when he caught it with his thumb and gently spread it across her cheekbone.

"I love you," he said with a certainty that made her heart expand.

"I love you," she echoed then shut her eyes when he leaned toward her.

The kiss he gave her was soft, sweet, and beautiful.

And so was the love they made.


	41. Chapter 41

**Part 41**

She sat on his couch, tears slipping quietly down her face as she stared at his coffee table.

Atop it sat two shoeboxes, both almost full with Vicodin bottles and other drugs, including a kit in a wooden box that contained syringes and vials of morphine. She'd found them everywhere he'd listed, and a few places he hadn't. She didn't know if he'd just forgotten them or left them off. She hoped the former. She prayed the former because what she was looking at…

_God, how did I not realize it was this bad?_

The stash was a veritable monument to his pain, and not just the physical. His own words had outed that his desire for the drugs went far beyond just the agony his leg brought him.

_Sometimes I just don't want to feel. _

That's what he'd said and it broke her heart now more than it had then. He had enough opiates hidden away to never feel anything again, several times over. Then there was the small kit that held several scalpels.

She'd dared him to prove he could quit and Cameron had said she found him cutting himself to release endorphins to fight the pain of withdrawal. Cuddy had believed her but now she was looking at the evidence of it in the form of shiny, silver blades.

_He's been so alone with all this_, she thought and the realization was almost more than she could bear. She felt ill as she reached for the lids to the boxes. She wasted no time in hiding the contents from view, settling the tops into place with unsteady fingers.

Sitting back, she shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She turned her mind toward the morning hours and how he'd been with her before he left for the program at Mayfield.

He'd kissed her and looked at her with such affection. There hadn't been an ounce of pain in his visage, not even a tightness in his jaw or the line of his mouth. There's been only gentleness as he touched her and they made love.

She shivered at the memory of him over her, inside her, moving with her. Sex with him was pure pleasure and a joy, and she'd embraced the chance to commune with him before he departed. It would be weeks before she saw him again.

It had only been when he was standing next to his bike in her garage, his helmet in hand, that he'd outwardly reflected the gravity of what he was about to do. He'd kissed her then took her hand and placed a piece of paper into it — the list of hiding places.

"I would ask Wilson," he'd said when she glanced at the paper, seeing but not understanding the scope of what he was revealing, that would come later. Still, she'd nodded in understanding and replied, "I'll have to tell him something. He'll be worried."

"I sent him an email," he'd told her, adding, "He knows you know."

"Okay," she'd said then eased as close to him as she could without touching him. She'd gazed up at him with worry and love and hope. "Let me know when I can come up."

"Yeah," he'd said then leaned down and kissed her softly, just grazing his lips against hers before pressing and lingering.

She'd extended the connection, her hand folding behind his head and holding him to her as her mouth moved against his in kiss after kiss after kiss. When they'd finally parted, he'd gotten on his bike and left without another word.

As expected, Wilson had come to her office as soon as he'd arrived for his shift.

"He's really going?" the brown-haired oncologist had asked as soon as the door shut behind him.

"Yes," she'd told him. "The hospital will call when he checks in."

Their friend had looked both relieved and confused. He'd walked toward her desk and she'd known more questions were forthcoming

"You knew about this?"

"He told me yesterday," she'd answered truthfully, if vaguely. And she'd done the same with the other questions he'd asked.

_What made him decide to do it? Why didn't he tell me before? Did you see this coming? Where is he?_

"He's at a private facility upstate," she'd told him and watched him sit in the chair in front of her desk, clearly flabbergasted.

"I can't believe it," he'd said, eyes wide, hands gesturing. "I just can't believe it."

A part of her had wanted to smile at Wilson's surprise, but she hadn't. She'd just given him an understanding "I know", certain that if their positions were reversed — well, not _entirely_ — she'd have been similarly perplexed and curious.

He'd thankfully let things go at that and went about his day. She'd done the same, although her thoughts had frequently strayed to House, just as they were on him now, entertaining the same worries.

The next few days were going be extremely difficult for him.

As the Vicodin cleared his system his pain would be worse, but it wouldn't just be in his leg. It would be all over. He would be in agony and it grieved her that she could not be with him.

But he had to do this part on his own. This part, though, this she could do for him and bear the pain it brought.

Wiping away her tears, Cuddy rose and went to the kitchen. She had brought a shopping bag to carry the medication in but after looking at what all she'd found, she knew it wasn't big enough. A trash bag from the roll beneath his sink would do the job so she got one and carefully placed the boxes inside. She would dispose of the contents properly and discreetly in the morning.

For now, though, she felt the need to do something more so she tasked herself with gathering his laundry. She retrieved the few dirty clothes from the hamper then stripped down his bed and remade it with clean linens. As she straightened the pillows she considered staying the night.

It was to be closer to him she told herself even though she knew it was an entirely sentimental notion. There was no need to stay considering he'd spent almost as much time in her home as his in the last few months. He had personal things there and her sheets still smelled of him, and that's where she would be tonight.

With a sigh, she sacked the laundry in another trash bag and placed it beside _the other_.

She then assigned herself one more practical task and headed to his kitchen. Another trash bag in hand, she cleared out from his refrigerator anything that would expire before she expected him to return, which was pretty much everything. She also made sure the disposal was clean before she took out the trash.

When she returned, she did a walkthrough of the apartment again to make sure things were where they should be. It wasn't necessary; she'd already done it but she couldn't stop herself from indulging her need to be in his place a few minutes more.

So she indulged, without guilt, then gathered up the sacks waiting by the door, along with her purse, and headed out and home for the night.

She was not looking forward to sleeping alone.


	42. Chapter 42

**Part 42**

The day had been utter crap.

It had begun at three in the morning with a phone call that jolted her from the first decent rest she'd gotten in a week and a half. The caller had informed her that a water main had busted at the hospital and that the Emergency Operations Plan had to be implemented immediately.

She'd sighed wearily and rubbed her forehead as she gave orders to get the ball rolling. Then she'd dressed in the first clothes she could lay her hands on — the jeans and sweater she'd worn around the house the evening before — and headed in.

Once there, she'd taken over coordinating with the water service officials to provide potable water to the hospital while their crews made repairs and oversaw her staff in handling patient needs in the meantime.

It was nearly lunchtime by the time things reached an orderly enough state that she felt she could hand the reins fully over to the emergency services coordinator.

She mentally reviewed the meetings she'd missed while handling the crisis and made sure her assistant had rescheduled them as soon as she reached her office.

Wilson was waiting on her there and she sighed inwardly at the sight of him standing next to her assistant's desk.

"Dressing down?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm that she might have appreciated on another day but not this one. She was hungry and mentally and physically exhausted. She just wanted to order some food and make use of her private bathroom to cleanup and dress appropriately for her position.

_I want more than that_, she admitted inwardly but quickly squelched further thoughts of what, or rather _who_ she wanted.

"They woke me up in the middle of the night," she explained to Wilson as she breezed past him and into her domain. She heard him follow her and shut the door. She went straight for her desk, trying to quell her irritation. She really didn't want to talk right now.

"I'm so far behind," she said, hoping and praying her friend would take a hint, as she looked at her inbox and the folders that were already gathering next to it.

"Anything I can do to help?" he asked.

She gave him a long-suffering look, not bothering to hide the things she was feeling. "I'm afraid not," she said then surveyed her desktop again, commenting, "It's going to be a late night."

"I can pitch in," he said but she shook her head.

"I'll handle it," she told him without telling him that she needed the distraction. Her evenings was too empty without House there. She really missed him, even dealing with his barging into her office at bad times and haranguing her for a brain biopsy or some other dangerous procedure. The latter would amuse him but he wouldn't be happy with how much she'd been working.

Pushing that thought aside, she glanced down at herself and frowned. "I need to cleanup and change," she observed aloud and it was what finally secured Wilson's retreat, for now.

"I'll leave you to it," he said then headed to the door. She watched him stop there and he looked back at her with care and concern when he added, "If you change your mind, I'll be here late."

She found a smile for him, appreciative of his offer in spite of everything. A part of her really did hate keeping him in the dark.

"Thank you," she said.

He acknowledged her reply with a nod then left.

Soon as he was gone, she picked up the phone and told her assistant to hold all calls and meetings for the next half-hour. That would give her time to shower, put on fresh clothes and compose herself.

She proceeded to do those things, resisting the temptation to linger in the shower. The hot water felt great — and clean. She dressed in one of the spare suits she kept for just such situations like today, and did her makeup and hair.

She felt infinitely better when she stepped back into her office. She was happy to see that her lunch was waiting for her. She enjoyed the salad and tomato soup, and sipped the cup of hot tea while she sorted by priority the files and papers on her desk.

She took care of a few of the immediate ones between bites then set aside the ones she would work on this afternoon and evening in her office, then packed the ones she'd take home tonight into her briefcase.

At that point, she decided she needed to check in with the clinic. She hadn't had a chance yet today and it was usually one of the first things she did. It turned out be a good thing. They were shorthanded so she pitched in with a few patients.

After the insanity of the morning and knowing what she was facing bureaucracy-wise for the rest of the day, it was a pleasure to just practice medicine for a few hours. She wished she could do it for the rest of the day, but she didn't have that luxury. House's team did, though, and she called them down to take over and help with the backlog of patients. With him out, they weren't taking on complicated cases very often and when they did, it was only those she thought they could handle without their leader. They were good doctors but they weren't him — and Kutner couldn't entirely be trusted to work on his own, especially with Foreman starting work on a drug study and despite Taub's general work ethic. Thirteen was the only one Cuddy didn't worry about, but she'd decided to take this week off to take care of some family situation.

Recruiting done, she headed to her office but stopped when someone entering the clinic called her name. She looked to see a middle-aged, black man approaching, a friendly smile on his face and his hand extended.

"You are Dr. Lisa Cuddy, right?" he asked when she took his hand.

"Yes," she said, smiling at him. "But you have me at a disadvantage."

"I'm Dr. Darryl Nolan," he replied.

_Nolan. Staff psychiatrist at Mayfield._

Her first instinct was to panic, but his smile kept her heart from stopping in her chest.

"We have a mutual patient, I believe," he said.

She nodded, trying to calm herself. If something was wrong, he surely wouldn't be smiling.

"Yes, how is he?" she asked then wondered if her breathy tone had given away her feelings. Then she wondered why she was worried about it. If House had told him about them then he was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.

"He's improving," he replied, "But I was wondering if you have time for a consult."

She'd make time. "Of course, please," she said, gesturing to her office.

They walked side by side but she stopped at her assistant's guest again and told him absolutely no visitors unless it was an emergency. He looked at her oddly, but she ignored him. She was under no obligation to explain as his boss and as House's doctor.

She shut the door behind her and motioned for Dr. Nolan to take a seat in one of the chairs just inside.

"Would you like some coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you," he said as he sat. He started to drop his light jacket across his lap, but she held out her hand and he handed it to her.

She took a steadying breath as she hung the garment on the rack, a hook over from hers. She wasn't worried and yet she was, even though she probably knew why he'd come to see her. It wouldn't be hard to divine where House was involved.

Turning, she joined Dr. Nolan, taking the seat opposite him. He sized her up as she did, in that way that psychiatrists did anyone they met. She didn't let it bother her, knowing it was to be expected.

"How can I help you?" she asked as she sat back and crossed her legs.

"I'd wager you can guess," he said, his smile more genuine than before.

What worries she had faded in the face of his expression.

"Probably," she admitted then watched him reach inside his sport jacket and pull out an envelope from the inner pocket.

"This is just a formality," he said, passing the envelope to her. "But the law is the law."

"Confidentiality waver," she surmised and he nodded.

"He was both irritated and amused when I asked him to sign one."

She knew the look that accompanied that blend of emotions well. She smiled as she thought of it. She set the envelope on the table between her and the other doctor then sat back again.

"You're not surprised," Nolan observed, though she could see he'd expected as much.

"No," she said, then added fondly, "House is House."


	43. Chapter 43

**Part 43**

"How is he, really?"

She asked the question before Nolan could ask another. He sat back, mirroring her position, including folding his hands in his lap.

"He's through the toughest part, physically," the man said. "But the hardest part is beginning."

Counseling. He would hate that part, even though he knew it would help. Nolan would have his work cut out for him on that front. Which is why he's here. He's looking for personal insight into his patient.

"You want to know how to handle him."

It wasn't a question and Nolan looked amused.

"Yes," he said, his voice containing the hint of a laugh. "He's not exactly my average patient."

"House is not anyone's average anything," she countered. It was a point of frustration for her sometimes, but also a point of professional pride. She'd added him to her staff exactly for that reason.

"You like that about him

She smiled at that question. "Most of the time," she said truthfully. "But it can present managerial challenges."

"And personal ones, I imagine."

At that observation, she eyed him carefully. She had thought maybe House had told him they were involved, but wasn't sure now. Nolan almost seemed to be probing for confirmation of a suspicion versus verifying a fact. If that was the case, she didn't know what she should do.

_If House hasn't told him is it my place to do so?_ _Or maybe that's why he didn't stop Nolan from coming — which he could have done — and he's giving me the choice._

She ended up treating it as if he were and answered the doctor's question affirmatively, which apparently loosed a question he'd been holding in for a while. He asked it quickly instead of with the calculated patience she'd seen from him so far.

"How long have you known him?"

"Since college, in Michigan," she said then elaborated that their association there had been short and that it had been nearly a decade until she'd seen him again.

"Then he came to work for you?"

"Yes," she said.

Nolan looked contemplative.

"The _other_," he said after a moment, with a slight gesture of his hand. "That's new?"

"Relatively," she answered, seeing no need to hide that from him.

"His addiction … it began with the injury to his leg?"

Cuddy winced inwardly, an age-old guilt making itself known.

"He hasn't told you anything, has he?" she asked instead of answering.

"He talks around me," Nolan confessed.

"He does that," she said, smiling a little. She knew that part of him well. "It wears most people out but you don't strike me as someone who gives up."

"I want to help him," Nolan said and it was sincere. "And I believe he wants help, but he has grown increasingly withdrawn in the last few days."

With a sigh, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. She clasped her hands and rested her chin on her knuckles. He mirrored her position yet again and part of her wondered if he was aware of what he was doing.

"Is he in pain?" she asked.

"I believe he is, but he doesn't say."

"What are you giving him?" she asked softly.

"The strongest thing we stock is ibuprofen," he said.

"He probably needs something more," she told him. "The Vicodin may have exacerbated his pain at times, but the pain is real."

"I don't doubt it is."

She asked another question.

"If I prescribe him something stronger, not an opiate or narcotic, will you allow him to have it?"

A corner of Nolan's mouth quirked up. "It would be a breach of the recovery process."

The answer was one she expected. He had just given up one drug; it wasn't necessarily wise to give him another. Ibuprofen was a safer choice. He wasn't likely to abuse it like a prescription med. Experience told her that he wasn't likely to abuse the one she would recommend, but she didn't have privileges at Mayfield and wasn't inclined to interfere in Nolan's program. It had too good a success rate. Only if House was in dire…

"I've given him access to the physical therapy ward so he can make use of the baths," Nolan told her and she was glad to hear it.

"That will help," she said then asked, "Does he have access to games or puzzles … soap operas?"

The latter she added begrudgingly and Nolan looked more than a little intrigued. His eyebrows raised.

"Soap operas?" he said, smiling. "I wouldn't have pegged him for a General Hospital fan."

"Prescription Passion," she corrected, "But, yes. He needs the engagement, whether it's solving a puzzle, playing with a yo-yo or tennis ball, or working out the possibilities of inane plot lines. Any one of them could help."

Nolan hummed and sat back in his chair. He looked contemplative.

"We do have games available for patients, but he's shown no interest in them," he said.

She frowned. Games were usually a sure-fire way to engage him, to at least some degree.

"What is he doing?" she asked, hoping the answer might give her an idea of where his mind was.

"He paces mostly, or sits outside," Nolan answered. "During group, he usually watches out the window."

Cuddy lowered her hands and her gaze followed as she considered her next words. But then Nolan spoke again and she looked up to find him looking pointedly at her.

"I get the feeling he's looking for something … or someone."

_Me. _She swallowed hard, her heart hammering in her chest.

"He'll probably call you today to invite you for a visit this weekend," the doctor revealed. "I trust you will accept it?"

She nodded. She was absolutely going to accept it. She needed to.

_And that's really why he's here,_ she mused. Not for insight into House — at least not wholly — but for insight into her.

"Good," Nolan said, smiling knowingly at her. "Then if I could trouble you for one more thing."

Intrigued, she asked, "And what is that?"

His answer had her smiling.


	44. Chapter 44

**Part 44**

He looked out the window and scowled.

He didn't want to be around people. He wanted the company of one specific person but she wouldn't arrive until tomorrow.

While purging his body of Vicodin, during the worst parts, he had hallucinated her presence. More than once he'd reached for her outstretched hand only to grasp empty air. That had been more agonizing than the pain — or so it had seemed. Or maybe it really had been.

He'd known she wasn't there, just as he knew she wouldn't have been able to do anything more than hold his hand had she been. Just as he knew that getting clean was on him and that he had to do it without her at his side.

In the last few days, he'd found himself wishing he'd ditched the damned opiate before they'd become involved. Being without her wouldn't have been so troublesome then, at least not in the same way. It was still new for him to want someone with him when he was hurting, frustrated, or melancholic.

He had felt a mixture of those things since they'd let him out of the detox room to clean up. Showering, shaving, and putting on fresh clothes had made him feel better, but his stomach remained traitorous. His appetite was slowly coming back but everything he ate took a long time to settle. It would get better soon but for now it was irritating, especially since he had been roped into going to some damned thing with Nolan.

"It's just a few hours and you'll get to look at a different set of walls," Nolan had told him.

It wasn't exactly ethical for patients to accompany their doctors — much less addicts to accompany their counselors — to social events. But that's what he was doing, if only to look at another set of walls. He wasn't happy about it though. In fact, he was pissed off. He'd hated these sorts of things when he'd been on drugs; he had no idea how he was going to endure it without them. Or alcohol. That was forbidden now, too.

Frustration mounting, he shut his eyes and tried to think happy thoughts. Wilson would be proud of him for even entertaining the notion, which is why he'd never tell him or that his happy thoughts did not include him. Those were reserved for a certain brunette with legs that didn't quit, an ass he loved to have in his hands, and a mouth he wanted to kiss, constantly.

Memories of Cuddy soothed him but didn't always calm him. The tension in his groin was proof enough of that, but he ignored it, knowing it would subside soon enough. The boredom that awaited him at this hoedown would see to that.

_Tomorrow,_ he reminded himself, both ready and plagued by an unwanted apprehension at the thought of seeing her.

Things had changed for him and he wasn't yet sure how much. He suspected that was part of the reason he wanted to see her. She would know. She would be able to tell, even if he couldn't yet.

"I think you're going to enjoy tonight, Greg," Nolan said from the driver's seat.

House tightened his hold on his cane and counted to three before opening his eyes. He looked over at the psychiatrist.

"Why? Is there an open bar?" he sniped.

"You don't need the bar. Better yet, you won't _want_ the bar," Nolan replied and sounded irritatingly confident.

"I ruin events like this, you know," House replied with utter honestly. "Cuddy always sends me home early just in case."

Nolan made an amused sound. "Why did she invite you to begin with?"

"I'm her hospital's most prized asset," he replied and hated the way the words tasted in his mouth. He'd always accused her of that but he didn't believe it any more. She'd just been trying to include him and then he'd do something and she'd have to send him away to protect the hospital and everyone around him.

_I'm a prick_, he decided but didn't say it to Nolan, who thankfully didn't try to sell him on any more of the night's _festivities_.

House really would like to be anywhere else, a thought that kept repeating itself in his mind, especially after they'd arrived and joined the other attendees.

The venue was a high-end country club. There was a fountain out front, valet parking, and people dressed to the nines. Crystal flutes of champagne were being served from silver trays. The women wore insane amounts of flashy jewelry and were talking about nail and hair salons, and nannies. The men wore tailored suits and were talking about golf. He wanted to break one of the flutes and stab himself in the neck with the stem.

But then he saw _her_.

Or he thought he did. Fear assailed him that he was hallucinating like he had while his body sweated out the poison he'd been pouring into it for years.

He didn't know and still wasn't sure even when she turned and looked at him. Assessing and out of habit, he compared every detail about her to his memory, from her blue-gray eyes to her easy but timid smile to the sway of her hips beneath the slinky material of her blue cocktail dress as she walked toward him…

He swallowed, feeling naked and exposed as she closed the distance. But then everything around him faded away and there was only her. Just her. And she was more beautiful than he remembered.

"Hi," she said when she reached him.

He swallowed hard and searched her gaze. "Hi," he said and it was all he could get out, the sudden need for physical contact overwhelming all else. He surrendered to it and touched her cheek. He shuddered deep within when his fingertips contacted warm, soft skin. Then she touched him, curling her left hand over his right, which gripped his cane, and his world came into sharp focus. He found his footing.

_Just like that._

He smiled and watched her timidity fade away.

"Dr. Nolan thought you might like to see a familiar face." she said and he loved the sound of her voice.

"Yes." _And he picked the right one_, he thought as he moved his hand to her waist. He rested it there lightly.

"He came to see me," she told him then and he was somewhat surprised. He'd known Nolan was going to talk to her, but he hadn't thought he would go _to_ her. He could have easily consulted with her over the phone unless…

"He was curious about you," he surmised.

She looked amused. "That's what I gathered."

He glanced over her shoulder to where he'd last seen Nolan. He found the psychiatrist watching them and smirking. He raised his glass of champagne and tipped it slightly in a salute.

"He's feeling smug," House observed but without the irritation he might have felt under other circumstances. It was impossible for him to feel anything negative at the moment, not when her thumb was rubbing gently against the back of his hand.

The touch was soothing but it also made him long for more.

"He gave you a twenty-four hour pass," she said as if reading his thoughts.

He looked at her again, hope and want and need flooding him.

She took a half step closer to him. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Yeah," he breathed, his hand descending again, this time to find and lace their fingers.

She gave him a loving and knowing smile. Then she moved, with an elegant confidence, and led them away from the crowds.

He followed without question, wanting nothing else in the world more, a desire that gave way to a realization that he fully acknowledged and embraced as they waited for the valet to bring her car:

He would follow her anywhere.


	45. Chapter 45

**Part 45**

"Are you hungry?"

He was standing with her just inside the main area of her hotel room, looking at her while she looked at him. She was exuding the same intractable desire he felt. It was written in every fine line of her face and the blue-gray of her eyes.

On the drive to here, he'd grown nervous at the prospect of being with her, unsure of himself. But he wasn't unsure of what he wanted and that was the impetus that drove _him_.

"No," he said with a little shake of his head. Food most definitely was not on his mind and wouldn't have been even if his stomach was recovered.

"Me either," she whispered.

He trembled when she laid a hand on his chest, slipping it just inside his jacket. She caressed him gently, her thumb making a _shushing_ sound as it moved in a slow arc against the fabric.

He wanted to touch her, too, but he didn't, a part of him still afraid she would disappear. He'd touched her earlier so he knew better, but like that first night, he chose to let her take the lead. She didn't hesitate to take it.

He watched her closely as she did, reaching for his tie. Her fingers expertly loosed the knot, but with a deliberate slowness. Or maybe her pace was owed to the slight tremor in her hands.

_She's nervous, too?_

He didn't know why she would be but he understood why he was. This would be the first time in years that he was going to be with a woman without drugs or alcohol in his system. It would be the first time he made love with _her_ clean and sober, because even in college, he'd been under the influence.

Already he could tell a difference. He was intensely aware of her beyond what he'd known before. He'd always been able to smell her perfume, and her, but there were nuances that had been lost to the drugs. And it wasn't limited to scent. His senses had been dulled more than he'd ever realized, and that realization brought with it a need to _experience_.

So he did, breathing as deeply as he could and then giving into the desire to feel her lips against his, to taste her as he touched her.

Not wanting to startle her with the rising power of his want, he grazed his fingertips along her jaw, urging her to tip her head back and look at him.

Her eyes held a question but not for long as he bowed toward her. She tilted her head in mirror of his and shut her eyes, making herself available for what he wanted. He raked his gaze over her face, drinking in her supplication before closing his own eyes and brushing his lips against hers.

His breath caught at the first contact and the strength of his body's response nearly robbed him of it altogether. He hardly knew what to do with it.

To calm himself, he eased from her mouth and pressed his brow to hers. He felt himself trembling, bodily. He felt like a damned kid about to have sex for the first time. The feeling came with a sense of wonder and frustration. He wasn't a boy and this wasn't his very first time. He was a man, experienced in sex and sex with—

"Tell me what's wrong," she whispered and he heard her apprehension. It was subtle but there.

_Nothing's wrong. Everything's right. Too right._ That's what he wanted to tell her, but he chose different words.

"I feel … _everything_," he breathed then raised his head when she shifted.

He met her gaze. She understood. He saw her understanding and also wonder.

"We'll go slow," she said.

He smiled a little. It wasn't as if they'd been racing, but he did fear he might beat her to the finish line no matter how slow they went. He shared that embarrassing concern and earned a coy smile.

"Well, if I recall correctly," she said as her fingers moved to the buttons on his shirt, "You're not exactly a one-hit wonder."

No, he wasn't that. Not very often anyway.

For a moment, his mind hinted that maybe they should have gone somewhere and talked first, not near a bed. But that they would reunite after two weeks and fall immediately into bed was _them_. He blamed the idiotic idea of them doing otherwise on his current hypersensitivity and the associated fluctuation in his confidence to perform in a way that would leave then both satisfied.

"I'm afraid I'm not going to get this right," he told her and she shook her head.

"Unless you leave this room _without_ us doing it, you're not going to get it wrong," she assured him, adding with a smirk, "And I know we're going to do it. Several times most likely. You like it too much."

"I like you," he replied. "And it."

"I know." Her voice had softened as had her gaze. "Do you want to talk?" she asked.

Like minutes ago, when she'd asked him if he was hungry, he shook his head in answer, correcting, "I want you."

She eased closer to him in response and gently tugged his now-unbuttoned shirt from his pants. She then wrapped her arms around him, beneath the fabric, leaving only his t-shirt separating her touch from his skin. She looked up at him.

"We're good together," she said softly. "Whatever happens, House, it will be right."

He wished he had her confidence.

"I've missed you," he told her, cradling her face in his hands again.

She turned her head and kissed his right palm. "I've missed you," she murmured against his skin.

He trembled and her eyes sought out his again. "Sensitive," she breathed then rose up on her toes.

He gave her the kiss she sought, letting out a soft moan when their lips met and melded into slow, loving caresses. He surrender his fears to the rightness of it, just as he had _that_ night, and the nights and days since.

He tangled one hand in her hair and pressed the other against the rise of her ass, pulling her against his restrained erection. She moaned this time, low in her throat, and moved against him, making him harder.

His fingers found the zip at the back of her dress and slowly lowered it. Kisses continuing, he slipped his fingers just inside and caressed the hollow of her spine. She shivered and opened her mouth to him.

Her flavor exploded across his palette. He'd liked her taste before, but now, without the sourness of Vicodin in his own mouth, he could taste her better and she was sweet and things he didn't even have words for.

He kissed her deeper in response and she met him measure for measure, her fingers pressing into his back as she pulled herself tighter to him.

His heart was as subtle as a jackhammer in its pounding but he tuned it out and listened to her and the sounds they made.

_I love her. And I want to touch her … all of her._

He tempered their kisses and eventually eased his mouth from hers. His lips were wet and so were hers, swollen and inviting.

He caught her gaze as his fingers gently took hold of her dress. With as much reverence as he could muster, he began easing the fabric from her body. Her arms released him so that he could fully divest her of it. Her bra was next and he touched her as much as possible, lightly, as he removed it.

Her eyes darkened when he touched her breasts and then her sex, his hand slipping just inside the front panel of her thong. She was wet and responsive. He heard her breath catch when he slipped a finger between her lips to stroke her bud.

"House…"

The soft, breathless gasp did something to his heart. He bowed and pressed a single kiss to her neck when she tilted her head back. Her hands were on his shoulders, gripping him tightly as he worked her desire higher.

She was so beautiful. He'd always thought so but now, just now, he thought she'd never been more stunning, in bed or out. His eyes devoured her, loved seeing her response to him without the perpetual haze of opiates.

She was close.

"Do you want to come?" he whispered and his erection gave its answer, swelling to painful proportions. But he ignored it because this was for her. Because she was loving and patient, and because he could, and because she was _his_ and he wanted to see and experience_ this _with his senses unhindered.

Her thready "yes" was all he wanted. And he got it. And he made her come and marveled at seeing her orgasm take hold.

_Simply, perfectly beautiful._

His heart ached at the sight and at hearing her say his name again.

"I've really missed you," she panted when he eased his arms around her again. She was looking at him with more than desire. Love. He knew what that looked like.

"Me, too," he told her honestly and was kissed. Her hands grasped his head and pulled him down to her without preamble.

He bent and grasped the backs of her thighs and lifted her. Her legs went around him and he ignored the ache in his right one as he limped them to the bed. He lay her back then pulled his mouth from hers.

Her grip eased but her hands did not leave his head as he kissed his way down her body. He drew in deep breaths as he went, losing himself in the smell of her as he tended her breasts. Moving lower still, he slipped his hands under her hips and lifted her up to where he could taste her, his mouth watering in anticipation. He would have cursed his leg for limiting his ability to kneel, but her on his tongue made him forget _everything_ else.

Until she was drawing him back up her body.

Eyes dark with desire awaited him and so did a panting whisper…

"Make love with me."


	46. Chapter 46

**Part 46**

He closed his eyes and pressed his brow to hers once again. She had undressed him with the same reverence he had her and now he was inside her and she fit him perfectly, like a glove.

"Cuddy," he breathed then kissed her before she could speak. Her hands moved over his back as her mouth moved with his slowly, sensually.

He welcomed all of it, especially the latter. He basked in the comfort of her, of sex with her, and the love she openly offered. After the agony of those first days and the nagging uncertainties about himself, he'd felt lost and in need of connection. He found that need a marker of how much he'd changed in being with her. He used to push away anything more than surface associations with people, only occasionally reaching for more, briefly. But he'd wanted to reconnect with her almost immediately after his mind cleared.

And now he was doing that, in the most fundamental way he could imagine. His physical hypersensitivity faded in the face of the emotional vulnerability that elicited.

Above her, braced on his elbows, he took her head in his hands and kissed her softer still and began moving inside her. She moved with him, her body following him on retreat and rising to meet him when he returned.

The symmetry of sex with her was beautiful. He'd missed it. He was grateful for it and her presence.

Easing his mouth from hers, he looked into her eyes and saw her own relief at being with him. She'd let him see that before but without the Vicodin in his system, he was seeing more clearly the depth of her need for him. It matched his own. How much they'd opened themselves up to one another struck him hard in that moment. He'd never reached this point with anyone else before, never allowed himself to become this deeply entwined, not even with…

"I love you," he told the woman under him and she whispered the words in return. He meant it and believed her. He wanted to tell her more, to express to her the whole of what he was feeling. But lacking adequate words, he told her with his body, with more soft kisses and caresses and the steady plunging of his erection in and out of her body.

He took them both to the brink and he went over it, quicker than he wanted but longer than he'd believed he could last.

He buried his face in her neck as he came, his body shuddering, his hips continuing to move in the cradle of hers until he'd given her everything he had. Then he reached his hand between them, raised up, and watched her as he brought her to swift orgasm, hips pressed hard to hers, keeping his fading erection inside her. He delighted in the feel of her clenching around him and in seeing pleasure cascade across her features. She panted his name as her hips bucked against his and her trim nails bit into his back. He loved hearing that and feeling her come again when he continued to manipulate her in apologies for his speedier than normal orgasm.

He didn't stop until she shook her head, telling him she was too sensitive for more. He kissed her then, gently, between soft, rushed breaths, until she eased.

She hummed when he rose over her again. Her hands came around and caressed his face, thumbs brushing across his whiskers.

"That was definitely _right_," she said, a sated and amused smile emerging.

He mirrored the expression reflexively and wondered at the swell of happiness that came with it. The feeling had been an elusive one for much of his adult life, but it was intensely present now, at least for several moments before fear of it not lasting kicked in.

"What's wrong?"

Hearing the worry in her voice, he cursed his overactive mind but ultimately shared his concerns about how he would be without the Vicodin. He didn't know what to expect; the drug had colored his world for so long.

In return, she gave him a gentle but long-suffering look as she touched his brow, her fingers trailing across his skin lightly.

"You are still you," she told him.

"We don't know that," he countered.

She frowned. "Do you really think you're no longer yourself?"

He didn't know what he thought and he told her that.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

He nodded, curious to know her thoughts and hoping to find some reassurance in whatever she thought.

"You're still you," she reiterated and smiled as she did.

He frowned. "Cuddy—"

"I'm not denying you've made a major life change and that it has affected how you see yourself and raised fears," she cut him off. "But you are still you, House. You just need to take time to get to know yourself again. Nolan will help with that if you'll let him."

He held her gaze. "Will you?"

"Yes," she said softly, affirming the answer he hoped and suspected she would give. Her gaze communicated her resolve and affection. He appreciated both. He needed both.

Bowing he kissed her gently then eased from atop her, to lay on his back beside her. She immediately snuggled against him. It had only been two weeks, but he'd missed that already. Apparently she had, too.

Turning his head he pressed a kiss to the top of hers as he curled his arm around her and secured her closer.

"This is nice," she said as she slipped a leg across his, hooking her ankle around his shin.

"Yeah," he said, loving how soft her skin was. It was even softer on her shoulder, where his thumb was making circles. He'd noticed it before, but…

"It's different," he said aloud.

"Sex?" she asked and he smiled as he stared up at the ceiling.

"And other things."

"Is it better?"

"I'm more … _aware_," he explained, a variation on his earlier confession that he could feel everything.

She smoothed her hand across his chest to curl around his side. "Of sensations?"

_Yes, that, and…_

"How you feel," he said then laid his hand on her forearm and caressed her. "Your skin is softer than I remember."

She hummed and he continued.

"My sense of smell is clearer," he said, breathing deeply of the sex-perfumed air. He could catch _her_ scent in the subtle layers.

"And taste," he continued and made a mental note to explore that one further, soon. He wanted to kiss her more and the chance to spend time between her thighs. But he had a question for her first. He asked it tentatively.

"Could you taste the Vicodin before?"

"Sometimes," she told him, which raised a question that should have occurred to him sooner, much sooner.

"Just when we kissed?"

"No."

It had been said so softly, as if to soften the blow of the truth, but he winced anyway. As a doctor, he should have been aware that he'd been giving her what amounted to low-dose injections, almost daily, and usually more than once a day. He was a bastard.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She sighed. "You're not the only doctor in this relationship. I knew what I was doing."

Another question came to mind, another one hadn't really thought about. It was clear the Vicodin had dulled more than his senses; it had dulled his mind in ways he didn't like to confront. But he did and would; he had to.

"Why have you never asked me to wear a condom?"

She gave a half shrug then gave what he'd consider the typical male answer: "It feels better without one."

"Cuddy…"

She sighed again, moved her hand along his side in a caress. "I figured there wasn't any point. I'm back on the pill and if in vitro didn't work…"

He heard her pain. He hadn't been thinking about that aspect of things, but she clearly had at some point — or maybe it had been an unacknowledged awareness. He had definitely been plagued by the latter, but it still didn't explain the Vicodin aspect.

"And the drugs?"

"It wasn't that much."

She was right. The math indicated it wouldn't have been enough to affect her, especially since he hadn't been taking quite as much after they'd begun _things. _But if she'd had to take a drug test at any point along the way, it could have turned up.

"It shouldn't have been any," he said and it pained him to admit.

His confession had her moving. She pushed up onto her elbow beside him and he moved his hand to her back, never breaking contact. She met and held his gaze.

"I knew you were an addict when I asked you to stay that night. I knew you'd taken the pills. I knew you would take more," she said. "None of that stopped me from wanting to be with you then, or any time since. I wanted to feel you," she continued then cracked just the slightest bit of a smile. "And I didn't have any condoms on hand."

That confession delighted him because he hadn't had any either. He told her and earned an amused hum. Then she was moving again, over him.

He gently brushed her hair back from her face before she kissed him. It was a soft and lingering caress of her lips to his. She drew back and looked down at him.

"I wouldn't change a thing about what we've shared," she said softly.

A little confused, he asked, "Not even the Vicodin?"

"It was never a consideration," she whispered, "There was only you and me."

His chest filled with a lightness.

"You and me," he echoed.

"Yes," she breathed then kissed him again.


	47. Chapter 47

**Part 47**

He had the unparalleled ability to make her dizzy with pleasure.

She gripped the headboard and held tight as his tongue did delightful and scandalous things to her sex. He'd said he wanted to taste her again, and _take his time_.

He was taking it, had been taking it for what seemed like hours. She didn't know how long and she didn't care. She could barely breathe.

Moving one hand, she palmed the top of his head then opened her eyes and looked down at him. He was already looking up at her, watching. God, she loved when he made eye contact with her during sex. He was so intense and yet so gentle at the same time.

His tongue was touching her delicately now, but oh so deliberately. He knew what it would do to her … what it was doing. He was relentless, never speeding or slowing, just steady and never looking away. She crested with a deep moan and had to close her eyes as pleasure coalesced then blossomed through her flesh.

When she finally felt she was able to move with some measure of dignity, he helped her and she dropped to the mattress beside him with a throaty laugh.

She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him. "How was that?" she asked on a panting breath.

"A delight for the discerning palate … and the _dish_."

It was said with a roguish grin. She truly had missed him, and his smile. She had seen that expression more recently than she could recall in all the time previous. It was more than a pleasure to see; it was a privilege.

"You look like the cat who ate the canary," she teased.

His eyes sparkled fiendishly. "I look like the canary who ate the—"

She turned and quickly covered his mouth with her hand, knowing _exactly_ where that was going. She felt his smile against her skin, then a gentle pressing of his lips.

"You're such an ass," she said softly, meaning it entirely as an endearment. Crazy as it might seem, she was glad that hadn't changed. She enjoyed the irreverent part of him as much as the reverent — not that she'd admit it to anyone but him.

He took her hand in his and moved it to his chest. He held it there gently, his gaze searching hers then grazing over her face.

"You are stunningly beautiful," he told her and her heart fluttered.

"Thank you," she said softly then smiled when he said he was hungry. She teased, "Didn't I just feed you?"

He smirked. "Dessert."

She snorted and patted his chest lightly as she revealed her own hunger, the result of their exertions and the fact she hadn't eaten earlier.

"Order in or go out?" she asked.

Her question prompted a shift in his gaze. She saw uncertainty flare then ease, but it didn't disappear. She wondered at its appearance, so she asked.

"What is it?"

His eyes strayed from hers for a moment and when they came back she saw a desperate need to be understood. It was a unique expression, one she had come to recognize in recent weeks. It pained her that she hadn't learned it before; it could have saved them a lot of heartache over the years.

"I haven't been _out there_ yet," he said with a little movement of his head toward the door to the room.

_And he's not ready_, she realized and offered him a lifeline. "Pizza, steak—"

"Something lighter," he said to her surprise but he explained, "My stomach hasn't entirely forgiven me yet."

She hadn't thought of that but she could imagine.

"Let's find the Yellow Pages," she suggested.

He smiled and let her go to locate the directory. The book was becoming a rarity thanks to the advent of smartphones and tablets, but hotels could still be counted on. She found one in the little table on his side of the bed.

He eased his arm around her waist while she sat at the edge of the mattress and thumbed through the restaurant listings. She enjoyed the warmth of him and how his hand rested lazily on her hip. Her heart fluttered when she considered how strongly it testified to his ease with her and how wonderful that being like this, skin bare and guards down, had become so familiar.

"Soup and sandwich be okay?" she asked when she located a bistro nearby.

"Yeah," he said and something in his tone had her looking over her shoulder at him. He was staring up at the ceiling, his brow slightly furrowed. She waited to ask him what was on his mind until after she'd placed their order and returned the thick directory to the drawer where she'd found it.

"You're thinking again," she noted, shifting to hitch her leg up onto the bed.

His hand slid from her hip down along her thigh as he met her gaze.

"This seems surreal," he said, giving her thigh a squeeze.

She smiled gently and laid her hand on his chest. "A good surreal?"

"Yeah," he said and his features gentled. He didn't quite smile, though, and she understood why when he brought up the subject of his best friend. "Is he suspicious yet?"

"Wilson?" she asked, clarifying.

He gave a little nod. She shook her head. He took a deep breath; it communicated relief.

"Have you talked to him?" she braved.

His gaze flickered and his hand reascended to her hip. "I wanted to see you first," he confessed.

"I wanted to see you, too." It was needless to say but she wanted him to hear the words. "I took the day off."

The latter made him smile. "He didn't ask why?"

"I avoided the possibility. I made arrangements last night and left early this morning," she said, proud of her subterfuge and yet not.

A part of her still hated that they were keeping things from Wilson and she knew House wasn't entirely comfortable with their being secretive either, which was saying something. Wilson was a good friend, to both of them, but it's the way they wanted things right now. _Maybe especially now_, she mused, considering House's present vulnerability. He didn't need to deal with the stress of going public while he was just beginning to find his post-Vicodin footing.

"Are you going to invite him up to visit?" she asked, curious.

"Not yet," he confessed then tentatively asked, "How has he been?"

He looked away, almost shyly, as if embarrassed to inquire, meaning he wasn't asking how Wilson had been with Cuddy, but in general. She couldn't remember the last time he'd asked about someone else's well-being and took it as a sign of the changes on the horizon.

"Good but concerned," she said. "He asks if I've heard how you're doing."

"How often?"

"Once every few days," she told him truthfully. Wilson hadn't been obsessing, but definitely been anxious whenever she'd talked to him.

"Only once on those days?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Has he been wearing blue shirts?"

Pushing aside her curiosity about that question and what he was clearly trying to deduce, she sifted her memories for an answer.

"I think so," she said.

"He's still dating that secretary from records," he said, "She likes him in blue shirts."

His declaration did not come with the gloating smirk she had come to expect in such moments and exchanges over the years, but with a frown.

"He seems happy but he misses you," she said.

"He's probably appreciated the space," he countered.

It clearly wasn't a happy thought but neither was it a pained or self-pitying one. She would have thought it the latter in the past, probably accurately, whereas now she was again picking up on his uncertainty of himself, and his awareness that things were different. Logically, he could assume it would affect all areas of his life in some way, especially his closest relationships, and he'd be right.

She was already seeing a difference in theirs.

For one thing, he was being openly vulnerable with her. He hadn't attempted to pretend otherwise or been evasive. He was talking to her about serious things and sharing what was new or different for him, and he was asking questions of her, wanting to know her thoughts and feelings. She liked that and knew that more revelations were likely on the horizon as he came to terms with his past, discovered the present, and looked to the future.

His fear of those discoveries was palpable at the moment. He knew who he was, even if he didn't think he did, and he knew how he could be and had been. It was going to be a lot to reconcile but she had no doubt he could do it. He could do anything he set his mind to; he just had to get past the fear.

"I know you're worried but change isn't always a bad thing," she told him softly, "It's going to be okay. He'll be happy to hear from you, and for you."

His gaze found hers again and he moved his hand up to touch her cheek.

"Are you?" he asked.

She gave him a knowing smile, covered his hand with hers, and pressed her cheek to his palm. Her reply was uttered softly.

"You know the answer to that."

He radiated tenderness in that moment.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I do."


	48. Chapter 48

Whew! I finally found time to write! Things have been beyond hectic for months now. I so appreciate your patience and am glad to get another part of the story to you. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Part 48**

"Are you staying tomorrow night?"

She looked up from her salad to see him looking at her. His voice had been soft, the query tentative, as if he was afraid of the answer. Seeing his worry, she sought to put him at ease.

"I have the room," she said softly, adding, "I wasn't sure what to plan."

When he looked down at his food, she did, too. She noted he'd taken a couple bites of his sandwich but no more, while she was halfway through her salad. The spoon sat untouched next to the small styrofoam bowl that held his chicken soup. That his appetite had faded so quickly concerned her even though she understood why it happened. His body had been through a lot.

"Do you want to stay again?" she asked.

He nodded, just once. "I'll talk to Nolan but I'm barely out of detox. The chance of relapse outside of a focused environment at this point…"

He frowned as his voice trailed off. She watched him reach for his leg and rub at his thigh. Her heart hurt.

_If only leaving the Vicodin behind would eliminate his pain._

"How bad is it?" she asked softly.

He didn't look up. "Bad enough."

"Would you like a hot bath?" she asked, wanting to help.

He nodded, prompting her to set aside her fork and ease from her seat.

"I'll go warm the water," she said, pausing beside his chair and touching his shoulder briefly. Before she could move away, he caught her hand with his and looked up at her.

"I didn't bring my meds," he said, explaining, "They dispense by dose at the hospital."

She knew as much. "I have it," she told him and watched relief flood him. "You want it now or after the bath?"

"Now."

She squeezed his shoulder and went to her purse. As she dug inside for the prescription bottle, she wondered if he would be disappointed that it wasn't Vicodin — not because he expected it, especially now, but because of the addiction itself, a reflexive desire borne from years of abusing the opiate.

Finding the bottle of ibuprofen, she took it to him. "Nolan told me what they prescribed for you. He said you'd need it if you stayed the night," she said then gave him a little smile. "I told him you'd stay."

"Bet that amused him," House said as he took the bottle from her.

There was a hint of wry humor in his tone but a scowl briefly appeared when he looked at the label. She watched him open the bottle and shake out two of the pills. He stared at them a moment before popping them in his mouth and dry swallowing them.

She cringed inwardly at seeing him down them the way he used to do the Vicodin, but supposed she shouldn't have expected that to be different.

She took the bottle when he handed it back to her and put it away when he asked. His request made her suspect he didn't trust himself entirely with the medicine, even though the NSAID wasn't addictive or capable of giving him the _high_ he was used to. That didn't raise an alarm, but she cataloged his concern to give it thought, in case he wanted to address it or she felt the need to.

Not knowing what to say to him at the moment, though, or if she should say anything at all, she resumed her course to the bathroom only to stop when he caught her hand again. He caressed her fingers with his then looked up at her, his expression one of gratitude laced with fear.

She had seen both emotions before, together and separate, so they didn't concern her as much as the fragility that underlay them. It wasn't the vulnerability she was accustomed to seeing. It was infinitely different in that he looked as though he might break.

Easing her hand from his, she cradled his cheek in her palm then bowed and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. She felt him ease some when she lingered for several more, each more tender than the previous. She caught his gaze again when she straightened and felt him tremble when she stroked her fingers along his jaw. She drifted away slowly, reluctantly, and felt an immediate sense of loss once the contact was broken — and intense need for it to resume.

With that goal in mind, she prepped the bath and set out toiletries and a pair of towels. As she slipped off the light, satin robe she'd put on before their food had been delivered, she found herself wishing she had candles. The warm glow and flicker of flame would be much more comforting than the harsh lighting provided by the overhead and vanity bulbs. And she wanted comfort, for him and herself.

_He desperately needs it_, she thought as she hung the robe from the hook beside the tub then slipped off her panties.

As she righted herself, strong hands came to rest on her hips. She felt a swell of love when he brought his body against hers, still covered by the soft material of the t-shirt and pajamas she'd brought for him.

She shut her eyes and leaned back against him when he eased his arms around her. She basked in his warmth and shivered at the feel of his whiskers rasping against her cheek as he nuzzled closer.

"Thank you," he whispered after several minutes of closeness. Her heart fluttered and she found herself smiling. He rarely said those two words but when he did, he meant them.

"You're welcome," she said, just as softly.

At her reply, he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple and trailed his thumb along her throat. When he eased back, she turned to see him pulling off his shirt. She laid her hands on his chest while he pushed his pajamas to the floor then stepped back as he stepped out of them.

Silently, she gestured for him to get into the tub first while she clipped her hair up out of the way. He made use of the assistive bars and lowered himself into the hot water. He winced at the first contact but then she watched tension bleed away as the heat began to have its therapeutic effect.

Once he was ready, she joined him, moving to straddle him. He watched her as she did, his hands finding her hips again, then her waist as he guided her down gently and steadily.

The way he touched her, his gentleness, did things to her heart, something she had no real words to describe. So she didn't even try. She just accepted it, and him, and the moment with an inward whisper of his name.

As they settled, the water rippled around them, babbled softly against the side of the basin. She sat in the cradle of his hips, his penis soft as it nestled against the lips of her sex. It was out of necessity, positioning her where she put the least amount of pressure on his aching thigh, but that didn't make the contact any less intimate to her.

Feeling very much in love with him at the moment, she bowed and kissed him again, soft and lingering. She trembled when he slid his hands up over her back, leaving hot, wet trails on her skin. She hummed and pressed her brow to his when his fingers lightly caressed the back of her neck.

_So gentle. Affectionate._

She felt him tremble, too, as her fingers traveled the line of his shoulders, then the length of his neck. She listened to him breathe and the sounds of the water as he dipped his hands beneath the surface then brought them up to slick her torso. Her breath caught when he drew his thumbs across her rising nipples in tandem, delicate caresses.

When his hands stilled, finding her waist again, she eased back from him and reached for his shampoo. Along with his body wash, she'd fixed small travel bottles from the bigger ones he had at her place. He took it from her and set it aside after she put a small dollop in her palm.

With her wet hands, she began working it into his hair, which was shorn nearly to his scalp, shorter than she'd ever seen him wear it. She dipped her hands into the water from time to time, to gather more moisture to build the lather as she massaged his scalp.

When it came time to rinse, he sat up and tilted his head back. She scooped water in her palms and steadily washed away the suds. She felt a sense of wonder as each action and response happened without thought and in perfect sync, as if they'd done it a thousand times before.

The fluidity of motion and emotion continued when she retrieved his body wash. He watched her as she bathed him with care, taking time to caress him as she washed him.

The spicy scent of the soap filled the air and she breathed it in as she stroked his chest and arms, and washed each finger. He leaned forward and rested his brow on her shoulder when she turned her attention to his back. She drew out the process, loving the closeness and being trusted by a man who truly trusted no one.

When she eventually ventured on, he helped her move down along his legs so she could soap them. She was infinitely careful with his marred thigh, alternating between light caresses and gently massaging around the scar.

As the tense muscles gradually eased, she looked up at him to find his eyes were shut and his head was leaned back against the tile. The lines of his face had smoothed and he looked almost serene.

The sight pleased her and made her wish it was practical to just stay where they were for the night. But the steadily cooling water around them and hardness of the basin beneath her knees were realities she couldn't ignore for much longer, and she had one more area to take care of.

Retrieving the soap once more, she set about washing his sex. Predictably, his member stiffened as her fingers curled around and stroked his length. She caught his gaze when she gently hefted his testicles and rubbed them and just behind them. His eyes drifted shut then and he swallowed convulsively but didn't make any other sound.

She found his virtual silence in that moment infinitely endearing and sensual.

Ignoring the tightening grip of his hands on her thighs, she continued her ministrations with the one hand while the other worked his erection at a leisurely pace with a desire to make him feel good.

He stopped her before he could come, his desire-darkened blue eyes fixing on hers as he took her hands in his and drew them to his chest. She swiped her thumbs in slow arcs against the rise of his pectorals and hummed when he silently reached for the body wash.

Breathless, she watched his face as he began taking care of her as she had him. He was gentle but purposeful. His gaze seemed to study and map the terrain of her body while his hands traced languid paths.

His eyes found hers when he touched her back, hands drawing slow and even along either side of her spine. He took in her reaction to his touches and she didn't try to hide them. She made soft sounds and kept her eyes open and on his, letting him see her delight and surprise and growing arousal.

She hummed when he curled his hands around the arches of her feet and rubbed his thumbs against her heels. She bit her lip when he placed his hands on her thighs and nudged her legs wider. She let out a rushed breath containing his name when he slipped his hand between them and gently washed the folds of her sex.

She watched kindled desire flare bright in his gaze, matching the heat of what he'd stoked in her flesh. He gave it voice.

"I want you."

She wanted him, too. Very much.

"Bed," she breathed and he nodded, tempering his touch as he echoed, "Bed."


	49. Chapter 49

**Part 49**

They kissed and caressed.

Astride him once more, his hands moved over her body while she held his face in her own. His mouth was soft and warm under hers, welcoming, intoxicating in how his lips melded with hers.

She melted against him, shifting to slide her legs along the outside of his, bringing their sexes even closer than they'd been in the tub. She flicked her tongue just inside his mouth, along his upper lip, and he deepened their kiss. His arms wrapped around her and held her as he stole her breath.

She loved him. She was _in_ love with him. She wanted him to know that, to feel her affection and the depth of it. They'd already made love once this evening, and they were making love again, even without penetration. It was amazing and powerful and fulfilled her in a way that just the act of sex ever could. She hadn't known that until him but now that she did, she craved it, with him.

"Cuddy," he whispered when she eased from him enough to catch a breath. His arms tightened around her.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered softly then descended again, diving back into the pool of patient longing. He was right there with her, unhurried, accepting, giving. He seemed as lost as she in their connection, suggesting that his pain had either receded or been forgotten.

But other things weren't.

His need was insistent against her. She felt wetness where the tip of his erection was trapped between them. She felt her own along his shaft, suddenly aware that she had been riding his thickness with slow undulation of her hips, in perfect time with their kisses.

She hummed into him and his hands descended to gently palm the cheeks of her ass. He didn't urge her to do more or less, just followed her motions. Then, when he was ready, his hands splayed along her inner thighs, his fingers curling around and drawing her legs wider.

Their mouths parted and she sat up enough to slip a hand between them and grasp his slick penis. She stroked him then positioned him and took him slowly into her. She planted her hands to either side of his head, palms and fingers sinking into the soft down of the pillows.

His hands found her breasts and moulded them before moving to her back and urging her up over him so that he could suckle at her. She went but whimpered a complaint when he slipped out of her. She loved his height but sometimes it was a disadvantage.

But it didn't remain that way.

He bade her to sit up and put him back in her. He sat up when she did and the change in position gave him better access to her breasts. His hands pressing gently against her shoulder blades, he did what he wanted to do and she enjoyed having him nestled securely within her while he did.

She rode him leisurely, her arms around his shoulders and neck, cradling him as he cradled her. There was no urgency or overwhelming lust, just desire that fanned to a languid, licking flame that ultimately consumed them.

It did so with an unexpected grace.

She gasped her orgasm into the air just above his scalp and he groaned his pleasure against the soft flesh of her left breast. His tongue pulling at her nipple while he gusted hot, rapid inhales and exhales from his nose.

They kissed again when their bodies began to calm. Soft and slow and loving.

A while later, she lay facing him, her head nestled into the pillow. He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The lamp on his side of the bed was on, dimmed to its lowest setting. Her hand was on his chest, resting just above his heart.

He looked exhausted but he hadn't fallen asleep, making her wonder if insomnia had been an issue since he'd gone through detox. Like earlier, she chose not to address it directly, but indirectly.

"You okay?" she asked instead.

"Yeah."

He didn't sound very confident in his answer but she let it slide, choosing to move her hand up and brush her knuckles along his whiskered jaw. He took a slow blink, his lids moving downward in conjunction with her hand and reopening when she reascended.

After a moment, his hand came up to find hers. He curled their fingers together loosely, and looked at them before turning his head toward her. His gaze moved over her face, searching for something. He looked unsure.

"What?" It was a whisper in the space between them.

A heartbeat, then tentatively he responded. "I hallucinated you."

She wasn't sure what to make of his confession. The physician in her was not surprised; —hallucinations were a part of detoxing — but neither was the woman really. They had grown very close since that fateful night, and she'd always taken care of him when he was sick. That he had wanted her with him when he was intensely ill seemed only natural to her, even though she hadn't been. But earlier, when they'd made love and he'd held her tightly when she moved as if…

"I'm here," she said, recognizing now what she was seeing, remembering it wasn't exactly the first time he'd looked at her like that. She tightened her fingers with his. "I'm here."

He seemed to ease then looked down, another deep frown emerging. She wondered at its cause.

"House?"

He shook his head then shifted his arm, extending it toward her. Taking the hint, she moved closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder while he wrapped his arm around her. He brought their joined hands to rest on his chest then kissed the top of her head. She shut her eyes when he lingered and murmured against her scalp.

"Get some sleep," he breathed warmly into her hair.

Troubled by whatever was troubling him, it took her a while to drift off and even then, she did so only after she'd felt him slip into slumber.

Surprisingly, they slept through the night and though he was quiet the next morning, he seemed somewhat more at ease. Much to her delight, he kissed her then gave her a shy smile before excusing himself from the bed to answer the morning call of nature. Then he agreed to catch breakfast at a local diner before they went to the hospital for him to check in with the staff.

She noted his appetite was improved over the previous evening. He still avoided heavy or greasy menu items, but he massacred a helping of scrambled eggs and a slice of toast, all of which he downed with a glass of milk.

She was glad to see it.

Afterward, they drove to the hospital and parked. Across the roof of her car, she watched him stare up at the gray, imposing edifice. He didn't look intimidated but definitely seemed hesitant.

She wanted to tell him everything was okay, that she'd be with him, but she held her tongue as he shut the car door then came around to her. She returned the weak smile he gave her then let him take her by the hand and lead her to the front steps.

Once inside, she noted the atmosphere was somewhere between that of a school and hospital, the age of the structure lending heavily to the institutional feel. At the admit desk, he checked in with the charge nurse and asked her when Dr. Nolan would be in.

After finding out they had an hour till the psychiatrist would arrive, Cuddy braved suggesting that House show her around. She wanted to see where he'd spent the last couple of weeks, but she left the decision to him, waiting and watching as he cast a self-conscious glance at the nurse who advised that it was visiting day and Cuddy just needed to check her purse in with security.

Cuddy saw his uncertainty when he glanced back to her but he consented with a nod and nervous swallow. She smiled gently at him and gave his hand a squeeze, wanting him to know he didn't have to worry. His gaze flickered and he returned her grip before she turned her purse over to the nurse.

He kept hold of her hand as he took her deeper into the building, up a flight of stairs to an open room with tables and chairs, a ping pong table without a net. People were scattered about, some sitting and talking, some playing games, some staring out windows. She could tell the patients from the visitors, and not solely by attire. Many of them cast furtive glances at her, pegging her as an interloper, a face they didn't recognize. The expressions of those who looked ranged from anxious, to resigned, to fragile hope.

Cuddy had never had to struggle with an addiction but she was not ignorant of how it could take over someone's life. She'd seen the devastation of it in hospital emergency rooms from med school on, overdoses accidental and purposeful, other diseases and conditions brought on by substance abuse. So many people on the fringe of society with no sense of worth but a singular goal: the next high. To forget. To not feel pain anymore. Because they liked it.

_I still take the pills. Sometimes I need them. Sometimes I just don't want to feel. Sometimes I just want them because they're there._

That's what he'd said to her that night in the Adirondacks. In the darkness, he'd confessed his slavery to the drug.

_I hate them. I hate that I need them._

He'd said that, too, lamenting the reason why the pills were a part of his life at all — his leg, the pain it caused him. She had soothed it last night, best she knew how, but she would always wish she could take it away, just as she wished she could evict the addiction, too.

Cuddy wanted to know what more she could do to help him but wasn't certain how to ask him at this juncture in his recovery. If she was honest, though, she wanted him to tell her, to be even more open with her than he had been so far. She wanted to know what had troubled him last night. She wanted to know what pain underlay all the other pain he carried, the root it all. She wanted to know him better than anyone else in the world, even though she probably already did.

Feeling his fingers flex, she looked over and up to see him frowning. She followed his gaze to an upright piano which sat in a corner of the room. She wondered if he'd made use of it yet; Nolan hadn't mentioned it as a possible therapy tool for House and she hadn't suggested it.

_But I should have_, she chided inwardly when he led her over to the instrument.

He guided her forward to take a seat on the bench before he joined her. She waited for him to turn and lift the lid that covered the keys but his eyes just surveyed the room instead. He looked uncomfortable with what he saw_. _She wondered if he saw himself in them or if the doctor in him was restless.

"They keep it locked."

She looked at him in confusion then glanced behind him when he gave a little jerk of the head. _A lock on the front of the piano._

"You have to ask for the key?"

He nodded and she asked him another question, gently.

"Do you want to play?"

"Not with an audience," he said under his breath, his eyes still scanning the room.

Hearing voices suddenly raise, she looked up to see what appeared to be a young woman, a patient, facing off with what appeared to be her parents. There was a bizarre dichotomy in how she was both defiant and cowering. The staff orderlies were on alert and moved in when the woman charged the man.

Cuddy tensed as she watched the orderlies subdue the patient and a doctor emerge from the med lockup to medicate her.

House tensed watching the exchange. His fingers held hers tightly. Then he spoke again, telling her what he needed, his expression haunted as he did so.

"I need some air."


	50. Chapter 50

**Part 50**

It was chilly out, the overcast sky hinting at the possibility of rain or at least promising an afternoon mist. The occasional breeze buffeted him as he sat next to his lover, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, sharing body heat.

She was worried. He didn't have to look at her to know. The way she kept rubbing her thumb against his was merely outward evidence of the inner concern she always had for him. He hadn't always appreciated that, self-destruction too much a part of his repertoire. He did now, though, even if it also made him somewhat uncomfortable right now.

It wasn't her specifically. The prolonged contact with her, her mere presence grounded him as nothing else did, but it also made him keenly aware of how pathetic he'd let himself become and he didn't want her to see it, which was stupid since she'd known him for roughly twenty years and been there through some of the ugliest points of his life.

But the outburst in the common room, looking at the other patients … he'd seen himself from the outside and hated what he saw. He hated how what he saw made him feel about himself and was bitter at the possibility it meant his father had been right about him after all. Making him even more pathetic had been the sudden, intense longing he felt for the pills that dulled his pain and emotions.

Vicodin. He loathed it, but not as much as he loathed himself for wanting it, which only fed the desire for the drug. It was a vicious cycle that he wanted to break free of as much as he wanted to get swept back up in it.

If it weren't for the woman beside him, he would probably give in and flee the institution's pastoral grounds and his reflection in the living, breathing, too-bright mirrors. He would seek out the nearest gullible physician, tell them his leg hurt, and show them the gnarled divot in his flesh.

The drug would help him with that pain and the other because every nook and cranny of his existence was permeated with it at the moment. Like his thigh had been just after the surgery to remove his decaying quadricep, severed nerves raw and screaming from the trauma, the pain hot and sharp and his body aching as it purged the toxins resulting from muscle death.

The pain of detoxing had been its special own kind of hell. He'd feared losing his mind to the agony. He'd had vivid hallucinations. He had vague recollections of restraints on his wrists and ankles. He remembered pleading for help, remembered no one listening to his most desperate shouts for reprieve from the pain, he remembered…

_Too much. _

He'd forgotten last night, for the most part, and reached for the one thing in his life that was going right and didn't make him hurt, even if it stirred feelings of shame when he thought about the things he'd done and said to her over the years. He really didn't deserve her even though he longed to, even though he was trying to.

He knew she didn't make the same the distinctions he did. She was caring and kind and made him feel like he was more and better than he believed.

Needing to remember something else now, he shut his eyes and focused on the connection of their hands and sought out memories of the night. The taste of her. The feel of her, inside and out. Her beauty and sensuality. Her passion and compassion without pity. He had needed that with her. He still needed it. She made him ache in good ways and eased the ones that had been with him longer than he could remember. Which brought to mind her pain and he hated himself again because he hadn't even asked how she was handling things, with him and the _other_.

Squeezing her hand, he looked over at her. Her eyes were shut, her face tilted up toward the sky. She was beautiful. That she even gave him the time of day…

"How have you been?"

At his question, the corners of her mouth turned up.

"I've missed you," she said softly, her eyes opening and finding his.

He liked her answer but it wasn't the one he sought. "That wasn't what I was asking."

Her blue-gray gaze was knowing and tender. "I know … I'm okay."

Wondering if she was trying to appease him with the _easy_ answer, he prodded, "Cuddy…"

"I'm okay, House," she reiterated.

He continued gazing at her, searching her for any hint of deflection. He shifted toward her, angling his body as he released her hand and reached up to brush an errant lock of black away from her cheek, where the wind was threatening to keep it hostage.

She visibly trembled as his fingers skimmed along her skin. He loved that he had that effect on her and wanted to elicit the response again. Curling his fingers he brushed the backs of them along her cheek and jaw, down to stroke her throat. He felt her swallow convulsively and watched love blossom across her face. She glowed with it and he was drawn to it, like a moth to a dancing flame.

He leaned toward her and she moved in concert, her head coming to rest on his upper arm as he bent his head and sought her mouth with his own.

The kiss was tender and slow and what he needed. He gently curled his arm around her, his fingers coming to touch the curve of her ear. His world narrowed down to her and her warmth, to the softness of her lips as she returned each kiss, lingering for him to begin the next.

He wanted her with an intensity that surpassed his desire for the Vicodin. He wanted to lay her down on soft, pristine linens on a comfortable bed. He wanted to undress her and touch, kiss, and taste every single inch of her. He wanted to suckle her breasts and eat her out until she begged him to put his erection inside her and make her whole.

He tempered their kisses when his body began to respond in earnest to the attainable desires flooding through his mind. He pressed his brow to hers and shut his eyes tight when she whispered his name in understanding. Then her fingers were on his cheek, drawing gently through his beard. It was his turn to tremble.

"You want me."

It wasn't a question, but he nodded in answer, never losing contact with her brow.

"I love that you do." Her fingers touched his chest next, slipping inside his jacket. She pressed her palm to him and he knew she was feeling for his heartbeat. "I want you, too," she told him when she found it.

He shuddered at hearing her words, the tension in his groin increasing with her confession.

"Cuddy," he breathed in warning and sensed her smiling.

"You're so easy," she whispered and he couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of her, of all people, saying he was easy at anything.

"Oh, he laughs," she teased then and he lifted his head to see her wearing a wily smile. He wanted to kiss it away and was prepared to do so when someone cleared their throat.

Nolan. House recognized the doctor's distinct timbre.

"Go away. I'm about to score," he said and watched Cuddy blush. She looked down almost shyly, turning her head to obscure the flush from Nolan's eyes. House doubted the psychiatrist had missed it, though. His field was one that valued the skills of observation and deduction, much like House's. It was probably why House respected him where he found the other staff dull and annoying.

Even as she kept her face averted from Nolan, she cast House an amused expression, eyes glinting with wickedly good humor. It told him that if she had a comeback to embarrass him, she would wield it. He loved that she would but hated that she didn't have one. He liked fencing with words and she was his perfect opponent; he usually only bested her with the truly outrageous.

Behind them, Nolan chuckled deeply and suggested they go inside before the rain started.

House looked over his shoulder at the doctor. "Can we borrow your office for like an hour?"

It was an absurd question and gathered the usual response from Cuddy — a harsh whisper of his name and roll of her eyes. From Nolan, it netted raised eyebrows and an incredulous question, "An hour?"

"I like lots of foreplay," House explained then winced in pain when Cuddy tweaked one of his nipples to shut him up. "Ow!" he said and shot her a look.

Nolan chuckled again and told them he'd see them inside.

While the doctor retreated back to the building, House watched Cuddy smile brightly and shrug.

"Foreplay."

House couldn't help but grin. She'd found her parry after all.

"Touché, Cuddy. Touché."


	51. Chapter 51

**Part 51**

"Looks like your night out agreed with you, Greg."

House scowled as he shut the door to Nolan's office and continued to scowl while he walked over and sat in the chair opposite the psychiatrist. Much as House respected Nolan, he didn't like him meddling around in his head. He disliked the smugness the man was exuding regarding his overnight with Cuddy. He wasn't sure why exactly but he knew it wasn't a male territorial response.

_This is something else_, he mused as he looked over the man in front of him.

The doctor was sitting back in the chair with his legs crossed and hands clasped atop the folder in his lap.

"Pleased with yourself?" House accused.

Nolan just smiled. "Of course. Don't you feel a sense of pleasure and professional accomplishment when you accurately diagnose a patient?"

He did but wasn't going to say that to Nolan. He reached for his usual response.

"That's what I have Cuddy for. The pleasure part. And the other one. She takes care of both."

Nolan's smile faded away and his gaze pinned House and unloaded a truth that House couldn't deny. It sent shame roiling through him.

"She's more than that to you."

_Exposed._ That's how Nolan made him feel and House didn't like the vulnerability it meant. This particular vulnerability was hers to know and understand, no one else's. Irritated, House replied with the only words he would speak on the subject.

"She is significantly more," he said, suspecting Nolan had a general idea of what she meant to him, but no idea how _much_ she meant to him, which is why he probably should have expected the doctor's next question.

"Do you want to tell me?" Nolan asked with a cock of is head.

House fixed him with a glare.

"That's okay," Nolan said with a fluid, surrendering gesture of his hands. "But remember, Greg, I'm not an enemy. I'm here to help you."

Nolan said it with sincerity, and not for the first time. House believed him, just as he'd believed him every time before but talking wasn't something he did. He was learning with Cuddy but it wasn't easy and he trusted her implicitly.

House wasn't sure how far he trusted Nolan yet, which is why he had continued to deflect and evade the psychiatrist's attempts to get him to divulge his thoughts and feelings. To his credit, Nolan had shown extraordinary patience so far and appeared to be willing to run the gauntlet with him — the way Wilson and Cuddy did. Most didn't bother.

Despite his defensiveness, House nodded in acknowledgement, giving the doctor that much out of respect. Of course, Nolan took it and ran.

"Good," he said, his smile returning, "Then as you can imagine, I'm curious as to why you asked to see me."

House was suddenly resentful. He felt like a kid again, about to ask his parents permission for something he had every right to as a man: Time with the woman he loved.

He resented the need to ask even though he knew the structure was vital at this point in his recovery. He was an arrogant prick but not an idiot. He was well aware that he wasn't always the best judge of what was best for him, particularly now and probably hadn't been in a long time.

Except for Cuddy. That choice House didn't question. And neither did Nolan because he agreed to extending the pass after House found the words needed to make the request.

It was an understatement to say House was relieved. He breathed easier in the wake of Nolan's exuberant "absolutely" and thanked the man quicker than he'd thanked anyone in his life. It had come out on a heavy exhale.

The latter had caused Nolan to cock his head again. "Did you really think I'd say 'no'?"

At the question, House was assailed with unwelcome thoughts of his father. He was unaccustomed to his needs being considered when it came to men with power over him. It was probably a subliminal reason why working for Cuddy had been possible. She in no way reminded him of the tyrant who'd made his childhood a nightmare.

Surprisingly, he found himself nodding in answer to Nolan's query and watched the man process it. House had the distinct impression he'd given something away with his response, non-verbal though it was. Nolan didn't press him, though, and House was grateful. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his father. Ever.

Feeling the need to leave before Nolan could change his mind, House pushed himself up from the chair, using his cane to balance himself once he was standing. He made it nearly to the door before the psychiatrist said something, a bit of advice House actually appreciated and didn't have to think about.

"Finnegan's makes an excellent chicken stew and has the best fresh rolls in town," Nolan said. "If you and Dr. Cuddy are up for a hearty meal and cozy atmosphere."

Not sure how to respond verbally, House just glanced back over his shoulder at the man and nodded once more before seeking out Cuddy. He found her in the common room, talking to one of the patients sitting on the piano bench again, watching the one patient in the room House had yet to diagnose — a woman who sat silently day in and out, functionally catatonic but no response to outside stimuli. A woman had visited her last weekend but there was no sign of her today.

Cuddy looked up when he neared and gave him a smile. "How'd it go?"

"You get your love slave for another night," he answered, keeping his tone light.

He took up a seat beside her. Unlike earlier, he turned to the keyboard and ran his fingers across the lid. The shine was long gone, leaving only weathered wood with the slightest of sheen. The result of time and neglect.

_It's probably donated and out of tune_, he mused then glanced up when something came into his line of vision. He focused and smiled. Dangling in front of his face, from Cuddy's fingers, was a key. A swell of _something_ rushed over him unexpectedly.

_Hope? Elation? Love?_

House glanced over at her and found her smiling that smile he was coming to think of as the one she reserved solely for him. That was either a completely selfish thought or naively romantic. He didn't care which at the moment.

"Play for me?" she asked.

By way of answer, he closed his fingers around the key then leaned over and kissed her cheek. He set his cane atop the piano then put the key in the lock and turned it. The lid hinges made on the slightest squeak as he lifted and laid it back to expose the black and white keys. He ghosted his fingers over them reverently. It had only been two weeks but he missed music.

"Any requests?"

At his question, she turned to face the keyboard, too. "Whatever you'd like."

He wasn't sure what he wanted to play, so he just placed his hands solidly on the keys and went through a series of warm up notes that quickly evolved into an impromptu melody. Just the motion of playing and the sounds, not as horribly out of tune as he'd feared, eased some of the internal tension that hadn't budged all day.

"Beautiful."

The softness of Cuddy's voice prompted him to look at her. She was not looking at his hands but him. Like earlier, her expression was one of fondness.

"It's nothing," he said. She smiled, "I like it."

He looked back to the keys and watched his hands continue to draw a random tune from the instrument.

"The esteemed Dr. Nolan recommended a place for supper, said they have fresh rolls."

She hummed and bumped her shoulder into his. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

She meant it in jest but House thought it a good idea. Here they could have one without worry of being seen by people who knew them.

"Sure," he said, running with it. He sought out her eyes again. "You'll have to pay, though. My wallet's locked up around here somewhere."

"And if we were to liberate it?" she suggested.

"Empty," he said honestly and then, because she would expect it, "Except for Wilson's credit card."

"Which would give away our secret," she rightfully surmised.

He leaned toward her, relishing playing their game here, in this place where he'd spend a few weeks more, without her. "And we can't have that," he whispered, but not too softly.

She shook her head, her smile coming conspiratorial. "No."

He raised an eyebrow then and cocked his head, feeling flirtatious. "So, still wanna go out with me, even though you'll be paying and driving, and doing pretty much all the guy stuff?"

"So long as you put out," she flirted back and his brain and every other part of him went wild with delight at her answer.

"Of course," he smirked. "I'm easy, remember?"

She laughed and his ears drank in the rich, throaty sound. It was perfection and ultimately put his whimsical composition to shame.


	52. Chapter 52

**Part 52**

She laughed during dinner. Her eyes danced in good humor as he told stories about med school, crazy cases and coworkers he'd had at other jobs, and made observations about the other diners.

They kept the conversation light and he smiled when she told him stories about things from high school and in med school. Some he'd heard, some he hadn't, but his cheeks began to ache after a while, a reminder that he didn't smile all that often.

Her smiles seemed to come easy. She was enjoying herself, engaging and flirting openly with him over her glass of white wine. He was a good boy. He didn't touch the alcohol. He got drunk on her instead.

_We should have done this sooner. _

The observation came to him when she threw her head back with an uninhibited laugh when he told a particularly revealing tale about Wilson. It was again that throaty sound of unadulterated delight.

They were getting to know one another through sharing life experiences they'd had in their years apart. Each thing she related was enlightening and defining. There was much they knew about each other and a lot they didn't.

_Circumstances played a role in that._

Their time in Michigan had been too brief and Stacy had been with him when he showed up in Princeton looking for a job. Then everything had gone to hell for him with the infarction. But he could only use the latter as an excuse up to a point.

Through all of it, Cuddy had been there, giving them nearly a decade that they could have done what they were doing now.

_But I avoided it._

Except for rare moments of emotional honesty with her, he'd chosen to keep her at a distance. He'd chosen to keep the acknowledged emotional depth of their relationship and interaction where it had been in the early days of their friendship at Ann Arbor — playful, intellectually challenging, desire lurking. She'd gone along with it and he hadn't blamed her. She'd seen what he'd become over time.

But he'd always felt more and wanted more, but been equally afraid of it — of having and then losing it, and afraid it wasn't what he really wanted it to be. It had been years of fear that virtually required denial on both their parts.

Time was gradually easing those fears for him. He was no longer in denial about what he felt for her.

He loved her. Being with her made him better. _She_ made him want to be better. Which is why he was here, voluntarily checked into an asylum to get himself straightened out. He wanted to continue to see her and hear her and smell her and feel her and taste her with the clarity he'd had the past twenty-four hours.

She was radiant, brighter than he'd realized, and full of life. She hadn't always shown that, but it was on full display now.

_She's uninhibited here. No responsibilities. No prying eyes._

Those eyes weren't privy to how her skin glowed in the diffuse, warm light of the restaurant, enhanced by the fireplace near their table. The flickering light successfully conspired with the ambient illumination to enhance the hints of red in her hair. They weren't nearly as visible in daylight or under the dull-yellow, fluorescent bulbs in the hospital.

Those eyes also couldn't see the tell-tale smirk that curled the corner of her mouth when he talked about pop-culture stuff she had no interest in. The one that said she was humoring him and enjoying doing so. He appreciated that look and really liked how she'd prop her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand when she was particularly interested in what he had to say.

He liked having her attention. Most people dismissed him, which was fine with him, but not her. He always wanted her attention, which is why he had continued to pull pranks over the years, talk about her ass and breasts, spread rumors, and do pretty much anything that would bring her in for close, fly-by orbits. Even if all it netted him was eye-rolls and proclamations of his idiocy or general assness.

He was glad she wasn't rolling her eyes now. Or calling him an idiot or an ass. She was laughing instead and shaking her head and swearing she would never look at Wilson the same way again.

She laughed again later, when they tumbled into the hotel bed while kissing and struggling with clothing. Friction and his sport jacket livened things up after he finally got one sleeve off. He brought his fingers to touch her neck and a static jolt had him drawing his fingers back and pulling his mouth from hers.

"Ow," he said, giving his hand a shake.

And there was that lush laugh again, deepened because she was laying flat on her back, him half atop her.

"Big baby. Want me to kiss it and make it better?" she teased.

He smirked. "I believe, traditionally, _sucking_ is a better way to appease nerve endings in need of attention."

She hummed and laughed at the same time and took hold of his hand.

"Let's see," she said and drew his index finger to her mouth. More than his groin responded when she kissed the tip lightly then whispered, "Better?"

_Yeah. It was better. _

Finding himself incapable of speaking, he nodded his answer and mood shifted, playfulness giving way to something softer and gentler. He welcomed it and tried to temper his breathing when she released his hand and touched for his face.

She looked up at him, her gaze hooded with desire and more. The more enraptured him. It was _the_ more that he'd run from in the past, whenever it surfaced, or threatened to. But he didn't run any more.

He wanted to see it and feel it. He'd reached for it repeatedly since that night in her hallway and he reached for it now, leaning into her hand while her gaze still held his. The effect his just doing that had on her was observable and palpable. Her expression gentled further and she trembled beneath him. Then she made a confession.

"This. Tonight. It's what I've wanted with you," she said softly on the warm air between them. "I had a taste in Michigan and have always wanted more."

He looked away, remembering how he'd left so suddenly. He'd meant to call her but he'd been so wrapped up in his situation that he'd given little thought to how she would feel. He'd been a selfish—

"Hey," she said softly, drawing his attention back to her and the moment, and away from the first dark thoughts he'd had since the morning. He was grateful. He didn't want to go there again and knew he wouldn't, for now, when she smiled _that_ smile at him.

"That wasn't a criticism," she continued, her palm cradling his jaw. "I just wanted you to know." She touched her thumb to his lips, adding softer still, "I've never found it with anyone else."

Feeling special for any reason other than his intellect and medical prowess wasn't something he had much experience with but he was experiencing it as she continued to caress him.

He swallowed hard as her fingers eased down along his throat then around to the back of his neck. She just let her hand rest there and it was comforting.

"What do you want tonight?" he asked and barely recognized his own voice. It was deeper than normal and he sounded almost out of breath. His heart was racing and doing some weightless thing in his chest. He had come to associate the feeling with loving her.

She was still smiling _that_ smile as her eyes moved over his face briefly. When they found his again, she whispered one word.

"You."


	53. Chapter 53

**Part 53**

He bowed and kissed her, grazing his lips against hers then pressing softly, before sitting up to shed his clothes.

He shook his jacket off first and tossed it to the opposite side of the bed. When he reached for the buttons on his shirt, she sat up beside him and used her legs, one on either side of him, and a hand on his shoulder to expertly maneuver herself closer to him. She stopped when her sex was pressed against his good thigh. She was hot, even through her jeans, and he'd wager she was already wet.

_Damn, Cuddy._

"Let me," she whispered and brushed his hands aside.

He did as she asked and placed his right hand on her knee, which was bent and hovered over his groin. His left found her back and braced her. He watched her as she watched what she was doing, took in the details of her face.

She had fine wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. Their curve matched that of her eyelashes. Her nose revealed her ancestry and was perfectly sized and placed. His attention was drawn lower, to her generous mouth, when he saw the tip of her tongue briefly appear as the second button presented her a little challenge. Her lips were just the right fullness for soft, luxuriant kisses. Her other features — cheekbones, jaw, and chin — were strong but feminine, defined but not sharp.

She was perfection in his eyes, a diagnosis made as his focus moved to the kissable length of her neck and then her ear. Both were partially obscured by hair but that was easily cured.

He eased his hand up her back until he was able to move the curling strands out of the way. He lasted a heartbeat before he was overcome with the need to do more than look.

Bending his head, he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. He felt her hands still when he began brushing tender kisses to her skin. He loved that and how she swayed closer to him.

He kissed a path to her mouth without opening his eyes. He followed his instincts and used his knowledge of her topography to find his way. He felt her move in sync with him, closing the distance. A soft sound escaped him when her lips engaged his immediately. They were damp and warm. The kiss was tender, purposeful, and even in pace.

_Like a metronome._

Then she tapered it to random kisses as she resumed working on the buttons of his shirt. He stroked his hand over her back then helped her remove the garment when she began pushing it from his shoulders. His t-shirt went next, between more kisses, then her sweater and camisole. He divested her of the bra beneath then curled his hand around her knee and he tugged her closer.

The throaty sound she let out at the increased pressure against her sex made him ache. He had never ached for another woman the same way. Maybe it was age and time, desire amplified by years of denial. Or maybe it was all her. He _believed_ it was all her.

His hand sliding down, he cupped her ass and urged her astride him. She released his mouth long enough to do so, letting him guide her. He watched the sway of her breasts then caught her gaze briefly before kissing her again.

His hands moved unhindered over her back, caressing delicate skin, tracing the supple lines of her. He toed off his sneakers then reached for the zippers on her boots. She chose then to move from his lap but he didn't let her stray from his reach.

He helped her with her boots then her jeans and thong until she stood naked before him. Hands on her ass, he guided her to the edge of the bed then leaned in and dragged his mouth over her abdomen, tilting his head back to skirt his tongue along the bottom of each of her breasts.

She said his name and sank her hands into his hair. She mussed it as he set a course south to her sex. He kissed her curls then unfurled his tongue to taste. Her hands fell to his shoulders and gripped him tightly. But then she released him and drew him away.

Eyes opening, he watched her kneel before him. She divested him of his socks then reached for the waist of his jeans. He held his breath as she unbuttoned then unzipped them. There had been no hope of hiding his arousal before and there definitely wasn't now.

He shut his eyes when she reached her hand just inside and caressed him through his boxers. It was a gentle caress, loving, and he clenched his jaw. It felt entirely too good, stirring more than his physical want of her.

He lifted his hips when she started tugging on his jeans. She pulled them and his boxers down at the same time and set them aside once they were past his feet. She eased up to him then, still on her knees and he swallowed convulsively before reaching a hand out to caress her face.

She held his gaze as she leaned into his touch. Then her hands were finding him, one curling around his erection, the other sliding up the inside of his thigh. Then she was taking him into her mouth and he lost all ability to think beyond one thought:

_I've spent too many years cheapening this act. This is what it should be._

Bowing, he kissed the top of her head in immense gratitude and sent one hand down over her back. He felt her tremble and she took him deeper.

"Cuddy," he breathed and opened his eyes to see the turbulent curtain of her curls draped over his groin. It was almost too much. He placed his hand atop her head and said her name again, in warning. He needed her to stop or he was going to come too quickly.

She heeded and slowly ascended, massaging every inch of him with her lips and tongue along the way. His breath fled and he struggled to breathe at all when she rose and moved back into his lap.

Some part of his brain was cataloging every sensory memory. The feel of her hands as they grabbed onto his shoulders. The way her hips shifted in his grip as she climbed onto the bed with him, one leg then the other. The smell of her sex. The extra moisture in her eyes. The sound of her voice…

"I want you deep."

Blindly, he helped her position herself to do that. He held her arms, hands cupping her elbows and taking her weight as she leaned back long enough to wrap her legs around his waist. He held her still when she grasped his erection and fought shutting his eyes as she stroked him. It felt good, but he wanted to see what she was about to do. He wanted that memory burned into his brain.

And it was.

He shuddered inside and out and hardened impossibly more as she sank down. The sight of her body taking him in was powerful and rattled his control further. He shut his eyes and leaned his head against her shoulder when she settled.

He relished her arms coming around him and how she nuzzled her face into his neck as she held him close. The subsequent whisper of his name nearly undid him.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to him at the same time he raised his head. He felt more than he could process and kissed her with all of it, wanting her to know what he was feeling, for her.

He kissed her mouth, then her throat, then her breasts. He kissed her shoulders and the bends of her elbows. He kissed every part of her he could reach while his hands staked claim to what they could find.

Skating touches over her back and along her legs and arms. He fondled her breasts, loving the weight of them and the gentle scrape of her hard nipple against the whorls and lines of his palms. He gripped her ass and urged her to move.

She did and he pushed up into her. She gasped and he watched her head fall back. He watched everything she did, that happened to her body as they made love.

He saw her break out into a light sweat, a flush rise over her torso and along her neck to her face. He saw her muscles undulate. He saw her breasts dance. He saw her bite her lip and her eyes flutter. He saw her sex accept his, all of him, repeatedly.

And he felt … _everything_.

And it overwhelmed him.

He held her hard down onto him, thrust up into her, and came, pleading for her to come with him. His voice sounded distant to his own ears, but hers didn't. It was clear and strong as she cried out.

She said his name.

She told him she loved him.


	54. Chapter 54

**Part 54**

Powerful.

That's what their lovemaking had been. The strength of it had left her shedding tears and his eyes watery with unshed ones.

He'd looked so terribly vulnerable in the aftermath, gazing up at her almost as if he'd surrendered absolutely everything in their coupling. She'd held him for the longest time after, cradling his head in the crook of her neck until his leg eventually dictated they move.

Even then, he'd clearly not wanted her to go. His hands had reverently maintained contact as he helped her back to her feet beside the bed. Then they'd brought her to him again, close enough for him to bestow soft kisses over her stomach. She had welcomed each touch of his lips. She had taken his head in her hands and run her fingers through is hair, following his movements.

When he'd eventually ceased, she'd smiled at him, her heart full of love for him and for what they'd just shared. And love had looked out at her from the bluest of eyes.

The purity of it had moved her then and it continued to do so now as she lay next to him. It also led her to make an observation she'd formulated since then, and an understanding she should have reached sooner:

Sex, like they'd had earlier, like they often had, was his _I love you_.

It explained so many things.

She'd always known that his praise of her breasts, teasing her about the size of her ass, and criticizing her wardrobe choices was his way of flirting. She knew he enjoyed sex and that he let himself be most vulnerable during physical intimacy. She knew he loved her when they made love, and that he could say the words and meant them when he did. But tonight had been a virtual shout from his heart, with his body.

He _had_ surrendered absolutely everything. He'd given himself, to her, because she'd told him that's what she wanted.

In knowing that, she found herself snuggling closer to him. She slid her hand over to above his heart and shut her eyes. He squeezed her shoulder gently in response but held his tongue. She suspected he wouldn't say anything more tonight — he'd already _said_ the most important thing — and she had no desire to break the contented silence that had reigned since she'd come.

Sleep took her in time, thoughts of morning and the goodbye awaiting them far from her conscious mind until she woke just before dawn.

It was the time of day she usually rose for work and rarely slept beyond it even on days off. She didn't even need an alarm most of the time. It annoyed her frequent bedmate but not this morning, because he was already awake, spooned behind her. She could tell by the way he was caressing her hip. It wasn't sexual but an idle touch, as if he was lost in thought.

_He probably is._

Today was going to be difficult for them. He would be resuming his temporary residence within the walls of Mayfield to continue his recovery and she would be returning to Princeton.

She was not looking forward to the drive, knowing she would worry about him between replaying the memories of their thirty six-hour oasis. It seemed sometimes that she'd spent most of her adult life worrying about him but she felt he was in good hands with Dr. Nolan.

There seemed to be a mutual respect and, she hoped, a growing trust between them. If House trusted him, he would talk to the doctor eventually. What he would tell the man she could only guess but prayed House would share what was needed for him to heal beyond just getting a handle on his addiction. While that was important, there were other things that needed to be addressed, namely what fueled his self-destructive tendencies.

She would take and could handle his misanthropy, general assness, virtually non-existent bedside manner, and inability to play well with others. That was just a part of the package of Greg House, drugs or no drugs. What she didn't want, for him, was a continuation of his hurting himself, through whatever means. It had broken her heart every time he'd done it in the past. She'd always helped put him back together, as much as he would allow, and would do so again if necessary. She just didn't want it to be necessary anymore — or at least rare.

He had a lot of challenges ahead to get to that point and she would actively support him and knew Wilson would, too. It was just going to take time, and she was happy that he was taking it willingly. If he'd been forced into this—

"Do you ever stop worrying?"

His fingers stilled as he asked the question and he nuzzled closer, into her neck. His breath was warm against her skin and stirred her hair. She smiled in spite of serious thoughts.

"In the middle of a mind-blowing orgasm," she said dryly and received a typical response from him.

"You're welcome."

She laughed softly, thankful for the moment of levity — and the mind-blowing orgasms he gave her frequently. As if on cue, his hand eased around her waist then smoothed downward to swirl his fingertips through the curls covering her sex. And that's all he did, just relocated his idle caress. It was terribly intimate even though his mind remained occupied with other things — most likely the same one that occupied her.

After a few minutes, she turned her head toward him. He shifted just enough to brush a kiss to her jaw then let out a soft breath that gusted along her throat.

"Stop, Cuddy," he said before she could say anything. "Just go back to sleep."

"Are you going to?" she asked, knowing he wasn't.

He sighed and in her peripheral vision, she saw him open his eyes. His fingers stilled yet again then he rolled away from her. She turned over when he didn't just lay back and saw that he sat on the side of the bed. She watched him carefully push himself up and go to the bathroom.

She lay back with a sigh then extended her arm out across the bed, touching where he'd been. She loved the warmth found there. It was a simple thing but comforting. She'd slept alone so many years and woken to cold sheets.

_This is infinitely better_, she mused and tried to quell her worry.

She found more motivation to ditch her anxiety when he returned and she caught sight of his still-considerable morning wood as he crawled back into bed with her. That was an added bonus to not sleeping alone.

She reached for him just as he slung the bedding over his hips, quickly but gently wrapping her fingers around his length. He let out a soft groan as she caressed him beneath the covers.

"Happy to see me?" she teased, pressing her breasts against his side and sliding her leg over his, the right one. She pressed her sex against his hip.

He took the bait and lifted the sheet and looked down beneath, at her.

"Yep," he said, his expression one of exaggerated admiration.

She laughed softly and nipped at his shoulder. Then she kissed him when he turned his head to her. It was a playful but lingering kiss that she punctuated with an alert to her plans for the very immediate future.

"I'm hungry," she hummed, catching his gaze. He looked at her oddly at first, when she released his erection, but he caught on when she grabbed the covers and tossed them aside. Blue eyes watched her with wonder as she crawled over him. He eagerly made room for her to kneel between his legs.

God, she loved that and that she was about to have him under complete control, and that he was giving it to her, just like he'd given himself last night. There was a decided headiness in being _that_ trusted by him.

Turning her attention to his chest first, raining soft kisses across the expanse, attending each of his nipples with suckling kisses before finding her way down to his navel. She tongued it gently and heard him suck in a breath. His body undulated under her, his sex rising further to nestled between her breasts.

_Oh yes_, she thought.

Looking up the bed, she saw his eyes were closed, his head pushed back into his pillow. But she wanted his attention.

"House," she said, her tone just the right one to get it.

She smiled at him when he looked down his body at her. She could just make out the bob of his Adam's apple as she positioned herself then took her breasts in her hands and slowly pressed them around him.

A four-word expletive emerged on a rasping breath. She only ever heard him utter that one when he got really excited with her. Not a single neuron in his beautiful mind was firing on an intellectual level.

Which was right right where she wanted him and she didn't wait to take advantage.

She rubbed her breasts along his length. She kneaded them over the head of his erection then bent to lick at him, tasting that first emission. His hand sank into her hair when she continued manipulating him with her softest flesh. His hips rose when she let her mouth take over. She hummed, kissed and sucked and took him deep.

He said that word again and she smiled around him before swallowing.

"Cuddy," he groaned and she knew he wouldn't last long if she kept that up.

So she continued, repeating repeated her actions, ascending then descending again to swallow. She varied speed and pressure, but always the same ending. She caressed his inner thighs and his sac. She rubbed that sensitive spot beneath and he shuddered.

She rose off him and looked up at him. His sweat-slick chest was rising and falling rapidly and heavily, his jaw was clenched tight. Bless him, he was trying not to come. She didn't want him to do that.

"Don't wait," she encouraged him then took him in again, sucking, kissing, caressing with her tongue, knowing it wouldn't take much after she said that. And it didn't. On her second descent, he groaned and spilled. She stayed with him throughout, until he'd softened and returned to his normal state.

He caught her face in his hands when she climbed back up his body. He looked at her with appreciation then kissed her, soft and slow, his arms moving down and around to hold her to his chest.

She melted against him, loving the surety of him under her and the strength of him around her.

When he eased his mouth from hers, he nuzzled against her cheek and told her he loved her. She smiled and whispered the words back. Then she kissed his ear, settled, and waited to see if sleep would come for him.

It did and she let it take her, too.


	55. Chapter 55

**Part 55**

They sat quietly in her car in front of the big, gray building that seemed even more imposing than before. It was entirely imagined, a result of them dragging out their goodbye.

She sat behind the wheel, pensive, the engine still running. He sat in the passenger seat, head bowed, brow deeply furrowed. One of his hands was clasped with hers and resting on the console; the other held his cane.

Neither of them had said much since they'd risen for the day. Even their lovemaking had been quiet. But there really wasn't anything to say but 'goodbye' and offer well wishes or something of the sort. That's what they were having trouble doing and the thick and lingering silence pushed her to say something, anything to break it. She aimed for emotionally neutral territory.

"Do you want me to send you some more clothes?"

"I'll have Wilson do it," he said. "He'll be suspicious if you do and he finds out."

That was true. "You'll call him this week?" she asked, needing to hear his voice again now that he'd finally spoken.

"Yeah." He rubbed his thumb along hers. "Can I call you?"

The tentativeness in his voice nearly broke her heart. "Please," she said in response, squeezing his fingers with her own.

She watched a corner of his mouth twitch.

"Even at midnight?"

She smiled. "Yes."

"Two in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Four?"

"You can even call me at work," she told him, because he could and she would take his call.

He looked at her, smirking. He was amused but she wished the good humor wasn't so tempered.

"You miss me walking into your office with insane requests," he accused.

She further engaged him.

"Yes, and the inappropriate comments about my wardrobe and breasts."

"Don't forget your ass."

She rolled her eyes but could not deny she loved _this_ with him.

"You never let me forget that," she groused without an ounce of sincerity.

"I like your ass."

He smirked and she leaned her head against the back of the seat.

"I noticed."

He looked away after a moment, down to where their hands were. He flexed his fingers with hers.

"You have two, you know?" he said, so quietly.

She swallowed around the lump forming in her throat and blinked away the sting that preceded tears. He always said the damnedest things, when she least expected them. And the questions he asked…

He was clearly asking this one out of insecurity — unwarranted in her eyes, but apparently not his own, or at at least some part of him found it necessary. It hurt that he asked but she let it pass because she didn't believe he was questioning her commitment, or even his own, but his understanding of things.

God help her, but she _understood_ that part of him. He could be so certain with a medical diagnosis, fight tooth and nail with her to treat even before scientific confirmation, but when it came to addressing his very real wants and needs, he seemed absolutely terrified that he was going to be denied or get it wrong. Or that he'd gotten it wrong and was going to be punished in some devastating way.

She wondered if he believed the infarction was a punishment for something but didn't ask. It wasn't the right time and definitely not what he needed. What he needed and sought was reassurance that what he believed and thought to be true, actually was real and true. She could give him that, so she did.

"Yes," she said, matching his tone, "And one has a limp."

She watched him blink slowly and tension bleed away from him when he reopened his eyes. _How long has he been waiting to ask that?_

His eyes sought hers then he leaned toward her. She leaned and met him for a kiss, soft, loving … almost sweet. When it ended, he released her hand, opened the door, and got out. She watched in the mirrors as he limped around the vehicle and watched him still, through the window, as he headed toward the building.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly, wanting very much to stop him. It was silly. He needed this. He was choosing this and she wanted him to have it because it was what was best for him and ultimately them. But the knowledge that she wouldn't see him for at least a week, possibly longer…

_Damn it._

Releasing the wheel, she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door. He stopped, apparently hearing it, and she strode across the asphalt to meet him.

She didn't say a word, just reached up, wrapped her hand behind head and pulled him down and into a kiss that she would define as anguished. He kissed her back, just as fiercely.

The memory of that kiss, and what immediately followed, was foremost in her mind as she neared Princeton later that afternoon.

He'd looked so concerned when it ended but she'd just shaken her head and summoned a smile from somewhere, along with a quip, that would put any anxiety he had to ease:

"You're taken. Make sure no one in there gets any wrong-headed ideas."

She'd given him permission to crow and it had netted a look of fiendish delight. And another kiss before he'd turned and walked inside, after a quick, firm grab of her ass.

_Never let be said that Greg House lets an opportunity for lechery pass him by_, she mused, a smile finding its way to her lips at the memory.

The expression was tempered some when she took the turn onto Highway 27, toward Princeton proper and her home.

She needed to unpack and start the laundry when she arrived. Then she needed to eat something before settling in with the stack of folders and reports on her dining room table. Her goal was to finish at least half of them before readying for bed but she would probably finish them all. She expected sleep to be elusive absent her bedmate.

And it proved exactly that. Even after a long, hot bath and a glass of wine.

It wasn't until she traded in her nightie for one of his shirts that she began to relax. The material didn't hold his scent or a trace of his cologne and it smelled no different than her other laundry, but it was his and just being in it was apparently enough.

She slept and dreamed of blue eyes and soft kisses until her alarm sounded.


	56. Chapter 56

**Part 56**

Cuddy glared at the four white-coated doctors standing on the other side of her desk. She was seriously considering rounding her desk and strangling two of them with her bare hands.

_Taub and Kutner. _

One competent and, she'd thought, relatively disciplined. The other earnest but naive with brief moments of out-of-the-box brilliance.

The other two doctors, Hadley and Foreman, looked as shocked as Cuddy to learn that their teammates had been impersonating their boss in some sort of a for-profit online clinic, dispensing medical advice. Kutner had started it and he'd be lucky to have a career after she _ended_ his little endeavor.

To say she was incensed was understatement. She hadn't a clue and shuddered to think how long it would have continued to go on if a patient hadn't come in looking for House. The nurses, thank God, had directed the woman to Cuddy before she'd crossed paths with Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

Snatching up the receiver from the phone on her desk, she called legal and told them to send someone down immediately.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she snapped as she slammed the receiver back into place. She hated the disbelief she heard in her voice, but it was just … unfathomable.

"I … wasn't," Kutner said haltingly, somehow managing to look both guilty and clueless.

She shook her head, still aghast.

"The money you've taken for services rendered would seem to point to you _both_ of you were _thinking_ something," she scolded then commanded, "The site comes down _today_, and every dime will be forfeited in whatever manner hospital counsel deems in the best interest of this institution and Dr. House."

Kutner shot Taub a look. The shorter, older man cocked his head to the side and made a shrugging motion of his shoulders.

"He's already spent his part," Taub informed her.

Incensed was a distant memory. She could taste adrenaline.

"And yours?" she asked, wishing she had House's cane at hand.

The man fidgeted. "In the bank."

"Then it should go without saying that _it_ had better not disappear," she seethed.

Taub looked like he might balk at the prospect but she kept railing, not giving him a chance to open his mouth. There was literally no point in having an ethics discussion, personal or otherwise.

"We're going to need a list of _all_ the patients you _advised_, your _diagnoses_, and any advice you provided."

"Does House know?"

That question came from Foreman and he asked it of Taub and Kutner.

Cuddy shot a look at the neurologist, shocked that he asked. And yet she shouldn't have been because it's what a lot of people would suspect.

She would never admit aloud to anyone else, except perhaps Wilson, that House might not be above profiting monetarily from it if he found out, but she would shout to anyone within hearing distance that he sure as hell wouldn't and didn't start it.

For one thing, House had turned avoiding work into a second career and Kutner's misadventure in web medicine would have required work to set up and maintain. And although House didn't care much about what people thought of him personally or his bedside manner, his renown as a clinical diagnostician was a point of pride.

Of course, having known the man most of her life, she also had to admit that it was still entirely possible that House had some knowledge of the endeavor. He had a sixth sense about subterfuge, at which he was a grandmaster. He spotted it in people long before she did because it would never occur to her that someone would do something so stupid — despite present, glaring evidence to the contrary.

But whatever Foreman's suspicions, she couldn't see House doing this. Maybe before, but not now. He'd certainly given her no indication that he'd been hiding anything from her, much less plotting. It bothered her that _that_ might not mean anything either, which is why she was relieved when Taub and Kutner were both instantly petrified at the possibility that he did.

She would discuss the situation with House, when feasible, but felt better about any potential involvement, even if only suspicion, on his part. But that still left her with a hell of a mess to clean up in his absence.

If only the idiots in front of her understood how delicate the balance was between House's reputation and the hospital's. It was not an easy thing to maintain and this stunt had the potential to seriously endanger both — and her own.

"Am I fired?"

Kutner asked the question, eyes wide with fear. She didn't know the answer to that question and she was too mad to make a decision in the moment. She needed to talk to Legal first, and that's what she told the men.

"I'll be discussing your futures here with hospital counsel. Until then, you are suspended, without pay," she said, confident in that decision. "Neither of you is to touch, talk to, or even so much as look at another patient in this hospital or anywhere else until then. Is that understood?"

"Yes," the two men said in unison, sounding chastised but not nearly enough to appease her anger.

It still wasn't appeased by that evening, especially not with the paperwork it had spawned. It was eight p.m. and she was still sorting through all of it and that only made her angrier because she still had other work to do.

Her gut in knots from the stress and her frustration soaring, she tossed aside the pen and folder she was currently looking through, and searched her purse for her mobile. She called Wilson and asked him if he would mind coming to her office. She hated doing it because he'd left early for the day after having been called in late last night, but she needed to talk to someone who could keep her confidence and was willing to protect House.

The call had woken him but he'd come anyway and was now sitting in the chair across from the small couch in her office, shaking his head in disbelief. She sat on the couch, her feet pulled up under her, shoes in the floor while her hands held a cup of untouched tea.

"I can't believe it," he said. "Colossal stupidity."

"That's an understatement," she sighed. "I can't even begin to tell you how angry I am. They've endangered the reputation of this hospital and House."

"And you," Wilson added and she appreciated it. But it wasn't her biggest concern, although it was a big one. This job was important to her and House needed her in it as much as she needed him and, maybe it was vanity, but she believed the hospital was better with them.

"And possibly the lives of patients," she said, bringing up the concern that had weighed heaviest on her thought the day. "My God, Wilson, what if the idiots have killed someone?"

"So where do things stand?" Wilson asked instead of answering and the question guided her away from the emotional turmoil that had been building since she'd talked to the one patient who'd just happened to wander in looking for House. Just the thought of a patient having been harmed by advice from those idiots made her sick, making her greatly appreciate the redirection to practical matters.

"Taub and Kutner are officially suspended and the site has been disabled," she replied. "Legal is meeting tomorrow to figure out the best way navigate the whole mess and will keep me apprised as needed."

"And you're here doing all the paperwork," Wilson said with a sympathetic look, one that undoubtedly consoled his patients. She would never tell him she found more comfort in the scowl of his best friend, even if he knew they were involved.

"Yes, and the day-to-day still to go."

He looked at her a moment then got to his feet and went over to her desk. "Where do you want me to start?"

She smiled at him. She agreed with House that Wilson was a gossip and meddler, but he was also sweet and kind.

"You don't have to," she said softly as she went over to join him.

"What kind of friend would I be if I let you drown in this giant mound of crap?" he said then glanced at her. "Have you even eaten?"

She snorted. "Would you be able to?"

"Yeah, but I'm a guy," he replied.

She set her tea on the desk, out of the way, and rounded up a handful of folders and passed them off to Wilson with a soft "thank you."

"Sure," he said then went over to the couch. He turned on the lamp, sat, and went to work.

It wasn't until they were heading out a couple hours later, paperwork largely done, that he mentioned House. She had expected it since he hadn't said anything earlier and the nature of his question told her why he'd waited.

"Do you think House knew?"

The echo of Foreman was unwelcome but she didn't let on.

"Foreman asked the same thing but I don't think so," she said as they approached her car. "Worst case scenario, he _might_ have suspected something. Taub and Kutner were too terrified at the thought."

"They are afraid for the wrong reason," Wilson said. "House probably would have spun this for a few bucks and held it over the heads of the dynamic doctoring duo for as long as he could."

Even though she'd entertained some of the same thoughts earlier, she didn't like hearing them said aloud by Wilson. So she ignored them and the doubt they could easily stir if she let them.

"Have you heard from him?" she deflected the conversation back.

"Yeah, he called yesterday," Wilson said, offering to hold her briefcase when they reached her car. She let him while she fished her keys out of her coat pocket. "He wants me to bring him a few clothes and the latest issue of Monster Jam on Saturday."

She smiled. She would never understand her lover's obsession with monster trucks. They apparently appealed to his latent juvenile impulses. Her true amusement, however, came not from that strangely endearing part of him but the fact that last month's issue was in her bathroom.

"I'm surprised he didn't ask for porn," she commented.

"Give him time," Wilson shot back then asked, "Have you talked to him?"

She tried to inject the appropriate level of detachment in her response. "Yes."

"How'd he sound to you?" Wilson asked.

She wasn't sure how to answer that. He had sounded a lot of different ways over the weekend. She tried ambiguity and hoped her lack of specificity wouldn't cause suspicion. "He's House but in new territory. You?"

"Still an ass but he's definitely in a different place."

She hummed in commiseration and used the remote to unlock the car. A beep and flashing of the lights signaled success.

Wilson passed her briefcase to her then opened the door. She ducked inside and set the black, leather bag on the passenger seat. When she righted herself, she met his brown eyes and smiled.

"Thank you again," she said. "I really needed to talk to someone."

He gave her a crooked smile and she slipped inside the car. She looked up at him when he asked a question.

"You going to tell him?"

She sighed.

"I will but when and how…" She trailed off in uncertainty then resumed with resolve, "I'll talk to his doctor and see what he suggests."

"Good idea," Wilson replied.

She smiled at him and he wished her a good night.

She wished him the same, shut the door, and drove home.


	57. Chapter 57

**Part 57**

A cardboard box tucked under her arm, she let herself into House's apartment with her key.

It was the second time within a month she'd done so but instead of rounding up his Vicodin stashes, she was here to box up her things. She hadn't even thought about doing so until Wilson mentioned that he would be stopping by tomorrow evening after work to pick up the items House requested. She knew there was no way the oncologist would miss her makeup bag and hairbrush in the bathroom, or her panties next to his best friend's boxers.

With House's apartment facing the street, she also knew she needed to go during daytime hours to avoid turning on any lights. Wilson's drive home took him by the building and she didn't want to risk him seeing and investigating. So she'd left work significantly earlier than usual to hide away the evidence of her clandestine relationship with House.

She really needed to be at work, though. She was behind, still, having spent most of her morning in meetings with legal and then the board over the Kutner-Taub debacle.

As expected, the board had wanted to blame House for the whole affair but there was simply no evidence to support it, from his minions or otherwise. She'd informed them that he had been on leave for nearly three weeks. That had raised some eyebrows and a couple members seemed disappointed they couldn't use it against him, but no one had inquired about the reason for his leave and she didn't offer one.

Stepping into his domain, she shut the door behind her then locked it. She went over to his desk and set her purse and the box there. The lack of dust accumulation on the surface indicated his weekly cleaning service had been by. She looked around the room and noted that everything appeared to be tidy.

It felt so strange being in his home without him, especially after having spent the weekend with him, but she still took comfort in the familiarity of the environment. She found herself wanting to touch his things since she couldn't touch him but she refrained — for the most part. She had to touch some of them as she packed up her own.

She started in the bedroom, gathering her clothing from the dresser first. As she placed things in the box, she was surprised exactly how much of her wardrobe had migrated to his place. She found camisoles and bras she had thought still at her place. She found her old Michigan tee next to his and smiled at the sight.

Her suits she'd kept better track of. There were three and all ones she'd expected. She tucked them inside the garment bag she'd brought them in originally. She laid them across the bed, next to the box, then ducked into the bathroom to gather her toiletries and makeup. She was just packing those into the box when her cell rang.

With a sigh, she abandoned the task and made her way out to the living area. She pulled her phone from her purse. She didn't recognize the number but was pleased to find out the caller's identity when she answered.

Daryl Nolan.

She'd called him earlier in the day, wanting to talk with him about when would be the best time to discuss with House what his fellows had been caught doing. The doctor had been out but she'd left a message and he was now calling her back.

_"I received your message and am at your hospital. Your assistant said you left early,"_ came the Nolan's voice through the phone.

_My hospital?_ She hadn't intended for him to come down and he hadn't alerted her that he was coming. It made her wonder if she'd miscommunicated and apologized as she related that to him.

_"No need to apologize. I was in Trenton making arrangements for my father's move up to Mayfield. When I heard your message, I decided to stop by on my way back home. I should have called ahead."_

"Oh no, that's fine," she said, truly meaning it. She appreciated the thought even if she hadn't been there to meet him. "I'm not far away actually. I just need to finish up something and I can come back, if you have time to wait."

_"Why don't we meet somewhere, grab a cup of coffee? I'd hate for you to drive back into work. Something tells me you don't leave early very often."_

She appreciated the offer but she didn't want to discuss the situation in public. Her office would be the best place for privacy.

_Or here._

The thought came unbidden but she considered it. The privacy would be even greater than at the hospital, with less chance of an interruption, but it wasn't her home to invite him into. But that wasn't enough reason for her to miss the idea out of hand.

_Nolan might even see something here to help him work with House._

That possibility, and the fact House's home had virtually become a second home to her, made up her mind for her. She gave Nolan the address then put on the coffee. While she waited for him to arrive, she packed up the remainder of her things. She moved the box to the desk with her purse, and draped her suits over the back of the chair.

While she set out mugs, she second guessed her decision, worried that maybe she'd overstepped her bounds and that House would be upset. She debated whether her worry was legitimate or a product of her overactive sense of guilt.

She hated the uncertainty and recognized it as one she'd too often entertained in the past when dealing with House. They'd come so far in so short a time and now she was worried one choice might blow it all out of the water. She suddenly wanted to talk to him and confess what she'd just done, wanting to desperately know if she needed to change course or proceed, but she had no time to act on the impulse.

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. She turned off the coffeemaker and nervously straightened her skirt as she went over to let Nolan in. She took a deep breath and tried to rein in her anxiety before opening the door, but she must not have been very successful because he saw it immediately. His expression was one of instant concern.

"Is everything all right?"

She lied. "Yes, please come in," she gestured for him to enter and he did, his eyes moving from her to the surroundings. He stopped only a couple feet into the room and looked back at her, clearly surprised.

"This is Greg's home. That's why you're nervous," he observed.

The man was as bad as House, reading her like an open book. She didn't bother with prevarication this time.

"Yes," she confessed and wanted to be anything other than the focus of his kind but discerning gaze.

He hummed in response to her answer then asked her if she'd rather go elsewhere. She would but she shook her head and told him the coffee was ready. He let her second lie of the last minute slide … until she returned with the coffee.

"You're afraid it will upset him that I'm here," he said, his eyes darting around the room.

She told the truth again. "Yes."

Lie. Truth. Lie. Truth. She wondered if her answer to his next question would be another lie. He gave her an empathetic smile as he sat in the corner of the couch. Her usual corner.

"Why?"

"It's his home, not mine," she said and was relieved that it hadn't been another lie — though she wasn't sure that wasn't still in the cards for future questions.

"What could I possibly learn here?" he asked and it was clearly rhetorical. "That he has a passion for music? That he's a doctor with an interest in medical texts and collecting antique medical items and instruments, and coincidentally shares a street address with a famous fictional detective? I know all those things already," he said as he settled back into the cushions, cradling his mug of coffee.

He looked like the damned Cheshire Cat, she decided, just without the big, toothy grin. But when he put things like that…

She breathed a little easier, for now, and conceded his point by taking a seat on the lounger, perching on the rise.

"I don't want to disrespect his space," she said, hoping to move past it, but of course he didn't let it pass. _Psychiatrists. _

"Do you think he would consider my being here disrespectful?"

Maybe not disrespectful, but definitely feel that his trust had been violated. And that scared the hell out of her.

"He doesn't trust many people," she replied. "I don't want to breach that trust."

"What would happen if he thought this was a breach of his trust?"

Answering questions with questions. Questions she didn't want to think about the answer to, but her brain traitorously supplied her with memories of how bad things could get if…

"Dr. Cuddy?"

She met Nolan's gaze, not realizing she'd looked away from him.

"I'm sorry," she apologized then regrouped by redirecting. She asked a question that she needed an answer to. "Is he talking to you?"

"He's opened up some," Nolan replied cagily. "The weekend was good for him."

The latter she knew. The former pleased her but not what Nolan said next.

"But you didn't answer the question."

"No," she said then sighed. "The answer is 'I don't know.'"

"And that troubles you." It wasn't a question this time.

"Are you his doctor or mine?" she responded defensively and she hated herself for it.

Nolan had done nothing to warrant her ire. If anything he appeared even more concerned than he had when he first arrived. She was, too. For the first time since she and House had become involved, she felt truly off-balance and without him here to reassure her, she was at a loss. The uncertainty…

_He is dealing with it, too, in his own way._ It's what she'd seen come and go for him over the weekend. The need for reassurance, for closeness and understanding, an anchor. It's why he was at Mayfield in Nolan's program and not a standard rehab. She hadn't questioned his choice, even when she found out he was checking into a psychiatric hospital. It had been an acknowledgement of his need for more than detox and she was proud he was choosing to address that need.

Leaning forward, she set her mug on the coffee table then, after a moment, got to her feet and walked across the room, over to window. She looked out at the street and saw her car parked in front of the building, next too House's ancient Dodge Dynasty.

_God, why does he drive that thing? _She knew he made enough to afford something nicer, at newer. But he'd bought a fifteen thousand dollar motorcycle instead. He was unpredictable, which is why she was afraid. She didn't want to be but it was an old habit.

_Maybe we should go somewhere else,_ she considered but said something entirely different aloud, revealing her inner conflict.

"I know him better than probably anyone and I don't know the answer to that question," she said, concern evident in her tone. "But I honestly don't know which scares me more, not knowing or being aware that I don't."

She watched a car drive by and felt Nolan's gaze on her.

"He's afraid he doesn't know who he is without the drugs," she said. "He's afraid he's lost himself somewhere along the way."

"Do you think he has?" It was asked almost gently.

"No," she said softly, with a shake of her head. "He's still House."

He had been the same man this last weekend as the one who had agreed to stay with her on the worst night of her life. The same one she'd gotten glimpses of over the years. The man who challenged her and flirted with her and teased her mercilessly when he was of a mind to. She smiled, secure in knowing that much.

"And that's where your fear is rooted," Nolan offered. "You know who he is."

Cuddy inwardly flinched, feeling that Nolan was insinuating that she was afraid of House, with cause. It was an irrational reaction on her part, but she couldn't stop herself from responding defensively, "He's not a bad man."

"He's a hurt man," Nolan said in counter and she knew he was looking to diffuse her anger. She would have felt patronized if he'd said anything else but somehow he'd managed to say what would have been her next words.

"Yes," she said. "And I don't know the source."

"No suspicions?"

She shook her head then added, "Nothing concrete, but I know it was there even back at Michigan."

"Childhood trauma?"

_It's possible_, she thought then said aloud, "He doesn't talk about it really, but I know he hated his father. I sedated him to get him to the funeral."

She didn't have to see Nolan to know his expression was one of confusion or his eyebrows had climbed his forehead in surprise. She turned to look at him — it was the former, but then it vanished and he smiled.

"And you think _this_, my being here, is a breach of trust?"


	58. Chapter 58

**Part 58**

Okay, her panic over inviting him into House's apartment seemed ridiculous in comparison. It didn't end all her worry, but it gave her perspective. She inhaled deeply and let a corner of her mouth turn up.

"But none of this is why you called me," Nolan said then gestured to the chair that she'd abandoned moments ago.

"No," she said, returning her previous seat. She leaned forward, hands clasped in front of her. "I can't get into details for legal reasons, but something has happened at work and it involves two of his team members. I may have to fire them."

"And you want to tell him," Nolan surmised.

"He is their supervisor and needs to know, but the timing…"

Nolan nodded when her voice trailed off. "I'm going to ask you a few questions," he said. "Don't think about your answers, just tell me the first that comes to mind."

She agreed. "Okay."

"Do you think his knowing will make him want to quit the program and return to abusing drugs?"

"No."

"Why? First answer please."

"It's a professional issue, not personal."

Nolan nodded. "Has he ever abused the drugs over professional matters?"

"There's no simple answer to that," she told Nolan.

She didn't think House had ever self-medicated beyond his norm when dealing with administrative issues but when it came to the pursuit of answers to cases, he'd done things to himself that were more acutely dangerous than a drug habit. She shared that with Nolan, telling him about the risks House had taken when trying to find out what'd happened in the bus crash, and Amber Volakis.

Nolan frowned. House clearly hadn't discussed that yet, not that she'd expected him to open up that much yet.

"How close is he to his team members? What do they mean to him?"

She almost laughed at those questions but didn't because they were legitimate ones.

"He is more _attached_ to some than others, and to all of them more than he would admit," she said, thinking how he would involve himself in their lives, telling them truths they didn't want to face or admit. He played pranks and humiliated them as means of helping them. He pitted them against each other to see who would come out on top. It was a game in some ways, and yet also his way of connecting with him, antisocial as his methods were. But they were still his employees and he'd fired team members in the past, despite personal attachment, without upping his Vicodin use.

"And these two?"

"They are both valued members of the team, talented doctors, and intelligent despite recent evidence to the contrary," she said. "But the degree of his attachment to them personally … I honestly don't know."

"Does he talk to you about them?"

"He has significant autonomy in managing his team, including hiring and firing them, so I don't generally get involved unless necessary. But I don't recall him ever coming to me directly about serious personnel matters," she said, letting a smile emerge as she recalled their Saturday night dinner and discussion. "Recently, though, he has shared some things he's observed or concluded about them personally," she said then added, "I'm sure you've noticed his gift for observation and deduction."

Nolan flashed a smile then asked, "If it comes to it, will you fire them?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation, "Which is why I want him to know in case it reaches that point. I want him in the loop. I don't want him to come back and find half his team is gone without at least a heads up on why."

"Are you afraid this will affect your personal relationship?"

"House may not like some of the decisions I have to make and has never been shy about expressing his disagreement, but he does respect that I have to make them," she said by way of answer then added, "But we're in a different place than we've been in the past."

"Any potential conflict now isn't just between employer and employee, but lovers," Nolan said and she appreciated that he understood.

"So far, we haven't found ourselves at cross-purposes beyond my keeping him reined in on cases, which we both expect. It's not personal. It's how he practices medicine and what helps him find answers to puzzles no one else can solve. I'm his failsafe, but it's inevitable that we'll bring it or something bigger home with us at some point."

"Do you feel this is one of those things?"

She was afraid it could be and she didn't know how to reduce the odds except to tell House now. It was a selfish concern in the grand scheme of things but she didn't want it to come between them any more than she wanted to burden him with the information while he was in recovery. And that's what she told Nolan.

"I don't want to distract him from his recovery and I know that's a completely legitimate reason not to tell him, but a part of me feels like I'd be keeping something important from him," she said, her voice soft. "I did that once and it was the wrong decision. He went back to Vicodin."

Nolan was frowning again. "He's detoxed before?"

Guilt welled up to the point of suffocation, prompting her to move again from the chair. She rose and turned to look at the items on the mantle as she recounted events preceding that decision. She focused on the pair of antique apothecary boxes, one of which had contained a stash of morphine and syringes, and tried to stave off tears as her mind supplied images of how House had looked on the surgical table. She had been so terrified.

"He was shot," she began, remembering how she'd bolted for the stairs the minute had Chase called her office.

She'd gone straight into the operating theater, put on a gown, mask, and gloves while the surgeons prepared to operate. House's bloody clothes had been cut away and lay on the floor. Surgery techs had been using heavy gauze and compression on two wounds — one on his neck, the other his abdomen.

She'd barely taken the scene in when Cameron's voice had come over the OR intercom. Cuddy had looked up at the viewing room to see his entire team there, looking as terrified as she'd felt. A tearful Cameron had told her something about House wanting ketamine. Cuddy had immediately ordered the anesthesiologist to use it, remembering something she'd read in a European medical journal that House had left on her desk one day, a sticky note marking an article. She to Nolan the significance of the article.

"Researchers were doing studies with long-term, chronic pain patients, using ketamine to induce therapeutic comas. The idea was to reset the brain's pain receptors, making the chronic pain the new baseline, or no pain."

"And it worked?" Nolan asked, sounding intensely interested.

"Yes," she said, remembering how House had been the happiest she'd seen him in years after waking from the anesthetic, his leg free of pain and no need for Vicodin.

"You detoxed him during the coma?"

"I ordered him weaned him off the opiates while he was out," she replied. "He hadn't asked for it, but I did it anyway, hoping the treatment would work. If it did, it would save his body the strain of detoxing while recovering from his wounds. If it didn't, at least his system would get a break."

"That choice didn't upset him?"

"He gives me crap about not being a real doctor any more because I'm an administrator but he trusts my medical decisions for him, even if he doesn't always appreciate my advice," she said, smiling at the memory of him thanking her, a rare expression of his gratitude, after waking from the ketamine. But then she frowned when she remembered her other medical advice that had saddled him with the pain in the first place. He'd not thanked her for that one but he hadn't been upset with her either because the choice had been Stacy's, not hers.

"But I didn't trust my instincts when it came to his patient," she said aloud, thinking about the case that had sent him back to the Vicodin.

"His patient?"

"What? I'm sorry," she said, turning to Nolan. She hadn't realized she'd essentially started in the middle of a new aspect of the conversation.

"His patient?" he prodded.

She nodded. "House took eight weeks of leave after I discharged him. He recovered fairly quickly from the gunshot wounds and his leg was pain free. He didn't need the cane. He was able to run again. He was happy and I was happy for him."

Nolan smiled, but didn't interrupt her narrative.

"When he came back to work, he took two cases his first day. One of them involved a man who'd driven his wheelchair into a swimming pool," she began. "The patient had undergone multiple surgeries for brain cancer that had left him paralyzed, unable to speak or communicate in any meaningful fashion. Everyone was convinced the man had tried to kill himself but House was sure there was a medical reason and he was determined to find the answer."

Cuddy told Nolan that House had tried several diagnostic tests but each one had endangered the patient's life so she'd ultimately called an end to the case and ordered the patient discharged.

"But House wouldn't let it go," she said, shaking her head, a faint smile emerging at the memory of him showing up at her bedroom window in the middle of the night. "He came up with this theory that the patient's brain was 'on fire'. It sounded completely ludicrous and he had no medical evidence to backup the diagnosis. He wanted to confirm it by treating but I wouldn't allow it, even though the treatment posed no harm the patient. A shot of cortisol, that's all he wanted to do but I told him no and he conceded he had no evidence to continue pursuing it. But then I couldn't let it go."

"You gave the patient the shot?" Nolan interjected, correctly deducing her role.

"And the patient got up from his chair and hugged his wife and son," she said with the same sense of joy and wonder she'd felt witnessing it. "I wanted to tell House he was right but a colleague argued that House needed to know he couldn't always get his way. I caved and didn't tell him and within days, I noticed signs that his pain had returned and, within weeks, it was clear he was back on Vicodin."

"You believe that not telling him about the successful treatment caused him to fall back to drug use?"

She felt a knot of guilt in her stomach when she confessed aloud, "I believe that he would have been better served by knowing of a diagnostic success while not on Vicodin than being a taught a lesson in the meaning of the word 'no'."

"And the return of his pain, do you believe that was connected as well?"

She wanted to dismiss the possibility but history had proven that when House was emotionally stressed, he was more reckless with pain management, including sometimes seeking out forms other than Vicodin, some illegal. And Nolan needed to know that to advise her and help House.

"I believe there is a psychological factor to the intensity of his pain," she responded. "He hates that I do. But it's clear that when he's emotionally stressed, it's worse, probably beyond what his baseline endocrine response would cause."

Nolan leaned forward from his position and set his mug on the coffee table, just as she had. He contemplated her for a moment then spoke softly and directly.

"How would you handle the situation if he were here, working?" he asked.

"I would talk it out with him and let him handle it based on legal's recommendation," she said because it was exactly what she'd do. Unless he decided to be belligerent and not follow through; then she'd have to override him and do it herself.

"Then I think you should tell him, although you would probably have to do any firing that might be required."

The speed of Nolan's decision caught her off guard.

"Why?" she asked, curious.

"Well, you said it yourself," Nolan said with a smile, "He needs to know."


	59. Chapter 59

**Part 59**

_He's bluffing._

House studied his best friend who sat across the table from him. They were playing Texas Hold 'Em with a handful of patients who didn't exactly present a challenge for House. If they won, it was sheer luck of the draw, literally, but Wilson was a marginally worthy opponent.

The drawback: House could read him like a book.

House raised the bet and watched Wilson smirk. It wasn't a confident expression even though he intended it to be. He gave himself away by continually looking at his cards and back to the stacks of paper pill cups in the center of the table.

House just stared at him and smirked, too, when Wilson finally looked at him again.

_One second, two…_

"Fold," Wilson said, setting his cards facedown on the table. The others immediately bowed out after him, tumbling like dominoes.

"Too bad this isn't real money. I'd buy everyone pizza," House said as he gathered his winnings. Which immediately started exclamations of disappointment from the other players — just like he wanted. And Wilson knew it.

House gleefully put on an exaggerated pout. "I'll bet if we're nice, Jimmy will get us some."

"You're not nice, House," Wilson said, half-rolling his eyes as he slouched back into the chair. Of course five other sets of eyes were on him, too, and their owners began a chorus of "Would you, Jimmys?_"_

Wilson squirmed in his chair and gave House a look that basically said "You're an ass."

House declared victory when Wilson went over to the dispensary and asked the doctor there if he could order pizza for the patients. After he was handed the yellow pages and a phone, House looked at his newest poker buddies and said, "Now, let's all say 'thank you' to Uncle Jimmy."

"Thank you, Uncle Jimmy," they said in unison as Wilson dialed the number. He responded by looking over his shoulder and giving a little half-wave. To anyone else, he probably appeared irritated but House caught sight of a genuine smile before his friend could turn away.

House had been anxious about Wilson's visit, still unsure of himself. He was better after last weekend with Cuddy but Wilson presented a different benchmark for him: Jerk friend you like anyway.

_So far, so good_, House thought, even though he'd love to have a beer with the forthcoming pie.

He mentioned it later to Wilson. They had grabbed up one of the pizza boxes and made their way outside to the bench next to the half basketball court. A couple of the patients were playing with their visitors. House and Wilson watched them while they ate.

"Isn't alcohol taboo for you now?" Wilson asked, brow knitting.

House took a big bite of his slice and talked around his food, "Don't worry, I'm not going to rally my minions and stage an escape."

"You're here voluntarily, House," Wilson pointed out.

"They're not," House countered, swallowing. So far, his friend had kept their conversation light, not asking questions, but it appeared he might be ready to take the plunge. House had hoped to delay it a bit longer, but he'd sort of opened the door and was about to open it wider. "And I'm not going to manipulate you into sneaking it in either."

"You're not?"

It was said with a hint of incredulity. House didn't know if he should be offended or not, so he opted for middle of the road.

"I don't want it for the usual reasons," he said, adding, "It just tastes good with pizza."

Surprisingly, Wilson left things for there for a while. It was only after they'd finished eating and the others wandered away from the court, that he started with the questions.

_I wonder how annoying this is going to be, _House mused as Wilson bounced the basketball to him.

"Why here?" Wilson said, glancing at the building then back to House.

"You mean, why a looney bin?" House snarked then took his shot. It hit the rim and rolled halfway around before dropping through.

"That's not what I mean," Wilson said but House called him on the lie.

"Yes, it is."

Wilson took his shot and the ball hit the backboard and bounced past the rim. "Okay, but—"

"Two words: success rate," House said, cutting him off as he limped forward to corral the ball. He took another shot and the ball hit the back of the hoop but dropped through anyway. "Now ask me the question that's been bugging you since you got my email."

Wilson caught the ball on the first bound and held in his hands. He rolled it around between his palms and looked out from under his furrowed brow. House waited and tried not to get irritated while he worked up his courage to ask. He'd likely require only two words, but House could think of several combinations and each would net different answers.

"What changed?" Wilson finally asked after several more moments

House had thought about how to answer that question. It was a tricky one because it wasn't any one thing that led him to Mayfield. It was more like a succession of things. Amber dying, hurting Wilson, nearly dying himself, his father dying, and Cuddy and what they were building together. The latter had been the final factor in a lengthy equation. Simply put, he didn't want to lose her, or what they'd found, and he feared his addictions would destroy them.

"I wanted to be better," he told his friend. It was vague but truthful. He did want to be better. He wanted to be the man Cuddy deserved. He wanted to be more than miserable and more than his pain.

House observed that Wilson seemed to accept the answer, but there were other questions lurking. Curiosity stirred behind his brown eyes, which could equally convey kindness or condemnation, or other things. Wilson took a shot, missed again, then recovered the rebound and passed the ball back to House.

"You're not insane, House. You do insane things, but you're not insane," Wilson said.

_And we're back to the first question_, House mused inwardly but snarked aloud, "I have issues."

House made another shot and Wilson looked up as the ball fell through the orange, metal hoop without touching the rim. If there'd been a net, it would have made a _whoosh _and dull snapping sound as it lashed the ball.

"I thought lacrosse was your game," Wilson said as he retrieved the ball and cast an astonished look in House's direction.

"Beginner's luck?" House mocked.

He and Wilson had played golf before the infarction and bowled after, but they'd never played basketball before so his friend had no idea that House had played in high school and, before his leg, played pickup games from time to time.

"Bullshit," Wilson said with a shake of his head. "Is there a sport you haven't played?"

"Football," House answered honestly as he watched Wilson take his shot — he made it this time.

Wilson's gaze was curious. "Too violent?"

"My dad wanted me to play," House said in response and felt his mood shift at just the thought of the man who'd raised him.

He didn't know why he mentioned John House. He didn't want to think or talk about him. Nolan would pick at that wound as soon as he had an inkling of how House felt about his father — and the psychiatrist would be like a dog with a bone on the issue. Wilson could be that, too, so House purposefully took the conversation another direction and asked his friend if he was still dating the records secretary.

"Nice deflection," Wilson complimented and pitched the ball back to House.

"You're welcome," House replied and took the next shot.

The ball banked off the backboard and dropped perfectly through the hoop.


	60. Chapter 60

**Part 60**

House watched Wilson drive away from Mayfield. They'd said goodbye on the front steps, having walked from the pastoral grounds behind the massive building to the lot where Wilson was parked.

The visit with his friend had left him feeling more connected to himself, further easing the uncertainties that had plagued him since emerging from detox. Other than the few serious questions on the basketball court, they'd kept their conversation light. They hadn't talked medicine or about work, but focused on pop-culture, Wilson's dating life, and trying to one-up each other in sarcasm.

House had appreciated the break from the hospital routine — individual and group counseling sessions, recreation time, and the like. He was somewhat concerned that he was getting along better with the people inside the walls of Mayfield than those outside. It was an observation he didn't like to dwell on.

As Wilson's car moved out of sight, House turned to go inside. He was barely two steps into the lobby before Nolan stepped into view and smiled.

"Come with me," the man entreated.

The smile he wore was one House was never quite sure he should trust. Sometimes it meant good things; sometimes it meant the psychiatrist wanted to have a conversation on a subject that House would just as soon not discuss. Because he wanted to call Cuddy and tell her about Wilson's visit, he hoped it was the former but feared it was the latter as he limped toward Nolan, whose grin broadened.

"Did you have a good visit with your friend?" the doctor asked as he began leading the way to the elevator.

_His office? Not a good sign_, House mused but answered the query aloud with a murmured, "Yeah."

Nolan cast a quick glance over his shoulder at House as they entered the lift. "You don't sound very happy."

"It was a good, which is why I don't want to have my brain picked today," House pouted as the lift ascended one floor. He really didn't want to do it, prompting to him to ask about it as they exited onto the administrative floor.

"Do we have to do this right now?"

Nolan didn't answer until after they'd been buzzed through the door that lead to the administrative part of the building. Every time House went through one of those doors, he was reminded of the purpose of this place beyond why he was here. He didn't find comfort in possessing the knowledge.

"We won't talk about anything you don't want to," Nolan said as they rounded the corner to his office. House could virtually hear the man's smirk.

"If I don't want to talk about anything, why are we even doing this?" House asked, frustrated.

"Because, Greg," Nolan began, laying his hand on the doorknob then looking back at House as he turned it, "It's not me you'll be talking to."

Confused, House frowned. He watched Nolan push the door open and hold it for him to enter. He crossed the threshold, his eyes still on the doctor. Then he followed the man's gaze across the room, over toward the windows where he saw the one person in the world he least expected but most wanted to see.

_Cuddy._

He couldn't help the smile that emerged in mirror of her own. She was dressed casually, in black jeans, a dark blue sweater, and those black, calf-high boots he always enjoyed taking off her. Her coat, he noted had been tossed across the chair he usually sat in during counseling sessions. Her hair was loose, the dark curls framing the face that he dreamed about almost nightly.

It was good to see her.

_Better than seeing Wilson,_ he thought but wondered why she was here. Wilson hadn't mentioned her, making him suspect his friend didn't know. And noting how she'd clasped her hands in front of her, even though she was standing, signaled to him she had more than a personal reason for her visit.

_And if she is here for a personal visit, she wouldn't be standing in Nolan's office._

"What's happened?" he asked, still just inside the room.

She glanced at Nolan, who uttered a polite "Dr. Cuddy" before stepping around House. Turning his head, House watched the doctor go back the way they'd come. He looked back to a moment then closed the door and the distance to her.

She was still smiling and tilted her head up, requesting a kiss. He gladly supplied it, his lips softly caressing hers as she kissed him back.

"You look good," she said when their mouths parted.

He tucked his chin and looked her over, head to toe, again, and told her she looked good enough to eat. She smiled again and patted his chest.

"Later," she said.

He liked the promise behind the single word but wasn't sure he liked what the delay confirmed: That there was definitely more to her visit.

He watched her take a deep breath and listened when she began speaking.

"We've had a problem with two of your team members."

"Yeah, Foreman and Thirteen are doing the horizontal mambo," he said, wondering how she'd missed that. But she hadn't.

"The other two," she clarified. "And they aren't doing the horizontal mambo."

House frowned. Taub and Kutner where as different as night and day, both capable and occasionally inspired, but also idiots. It didn't require any mental acrobatics to reach the conclusion that Cuddy's presence was owed to the latter. He could only hazard guesses what the braintrust had concocted to have her here in secret, but she saved him the trouble — and the embarrassment of being wrong.

"They have been running an online medical advice board, under your name, and profiting from the venture," she said, watching him expectantly.

House didn't know whether to praise their ingenuity or be angry. On one hand, it was a clever way to ply their trade and earn some cash, but it was also reckless. Then there was the use of his name, which didn't like that, especially since he hadn't known about it or gotten anything out of the deal.

_Irritated. _That's how he would label his emotional response to the news. And perversely curious as to how things might have played out if his life hadn't taken an expected route nearly two months ago.

Cuddy was undoubtedly furious, though, even if she wasn't showing it. It was the sort of thing that would rile her beyond belief and spawn a blistering verbal tirade that would make even him wince, if only inwardly. It was a threat to the hospital and to him and, by extension, herself. And _that_ bothered him more than anything regarding himself.

He was a royal pain in the ass but not an idiot. He knew how hard she had to work to compensate for his antics, both inside and outside the hospital. Her reputation was spotless, as was the hospital's, thanks to her tireless efforts. Her ability alone to raise money using his work, with his reputation, was a miracle unto itself. She had wielded that fact and his success record to protect him from the board more than once, which made him wonder…

"Are they trying to pin it on me?" It was a selfish question but he wanted to know.

"No," she said, shaking her head and looked relieved at his response. "There are some who'd like to but I put a stop to speculation before it could gain any traction."

He was relieved but not entirely. He revealed his concern, asking, "What about you?"

She looked confused. "Me?"

He held her gaze. "Are they taking any swings at you?"

She shook her head. "But Taub and Kutner's heads may be on the chopping block, which is why I wanted to talk to you." she said. "I wasn't sure I should, though."

"Because I'm here," he said.

"Yes," she said and he both heard and saw her worry, but it was needless.

There were plenty of things that might upset him in the way she obviously feared, but Taub and Kutner's stupidity wasn't going to send him back into the embrace of Vicodin — he much preferred hers.

He thought a moment on what to say and finally settled on four words that he hoped would put her fears to rest. He said them softly, his negative feelings abating as he looked down into her blue-gray eyes.

"This won't break me."

If she'd looked relieved before…

"I didn't want to keep it from you," she said, revealing another fear, one she hadn't mentioned but he probably should have guessed.

_She's afraid I would be mad at her if she had._

He smirked. "Pre-emptive guilt, Cuddy?"

She smiled and it was a guilty expression, which amused him.

"Something like that." Her voice was breathy soft when she added, "We've never quite been _here_ before."

No, they hadn't and as much as he hated talking, he knew they were going to need to discuss some things, especially potential work-related minefields. It would put them in a better place to handle things in the future. But they weren't going to have that discussion now. He had something else he wanted to address.

"Think Nolan will give me another pass?"

Guilt abandoned her smile and mischief moved in.

"Probably. If you ask nicely."

An opening volley for wordplay. He recognized it and sent it right back to her with a smirk.

"Only if I can be naughty later."


	61. Chapter 61

**Part 61**

"You're not angry?"

They were in the back of a cab going to the hotel where she had a room. Their hands were linked and resting on his thigh. He looked at her. She was already looking at him, her brow knitted slightly.

He thought about his answer and chose his words carefully.

"It would be a bit hypocritical considering the crap I've done over the years," he said, but didn't stop there, "But I'm not happy about the position they've put you in."

Her eyebrows rose at his response and he understood why. He'd rarely expressed remorse of any sort for the times he'd endangered their reputations and the hospital's — even the really crazy, totally indefensible stuff. But he'd thought about it since they'd secured permission for an overnight pass and it weighed on him now as she broached the subject.

Holding her gaze, he apologized. It wouldn't make up for anything but he did it anyway. She cocked her head and gave him a one-sided smile.

"Surely you know by now, that I've forgiven you every time," she replied.

"And protected me," he pointed out.

She hummed in affirmation and he glanced to see if the driver was paying them any attention; he didn't appear to be.

"I appreciated it, but not like I should have," House continued his apology, looking at her again, "I should have thanked you."

"I did my job, House," she said in response.

"If you'd been _just_ doing your job, you'd have fired me years ago," he contended then re-routed the conversation back to present-day events, "Are you going to give Heckle and Jeckle the boot?"

"I'm waiting for a recommendation from legal," she replied, her eyes straying from his to cabbie. He liked that she did the same thing as he had. "If they leave it up to me, I want you to weigh in. At the very least, there will have to be some sort of punitive actions taken. I won't have it, or anything like it, happening again."

Where she'd hummed in acknowledgment, he grunted. It was a weird sound for human to make outside of sex.

"You could sentence them to carrying around Foreman's haughtiness for three months," House suggested and watched her smile.

"Or maybe have them work off all your backlogged clinic hours," she snarked.

"Are you serious?" he asked, though he highly doubted it.

She cut him an amused look. "You wish."

Yeah, but then thought better of it, sort of. Since they'd started their relationship, that part of his job had gained a certain appeal. Her office was right next to the clinic, which was part of the reason he'd avoided it in the past. But now that he had an all-access pass to her heart and fun places, he liked the proximity. He'd couldn't go gung-ho, though. People would notice it if he quit complaining about practicing remedial medicine.

_If she would just make the backlog go away_, he thought and considered asking until she interrupted his thoughts with an observation he wished she hadn't made.

"You're actually _enjoying_ clinic duty," she said, her smile broad and bright.

He scowled and protested. "I _enjoy_ being within ogling distance of your _ass_-ets, not dealing with snotty noses and jock itch."

She laughed and the throaty sound filled the interior of the car. He heard the cabbie snicker and glared at him in the rearview mirror. When he looked back at Cuddy, though, he let himself appreciate her joy. Not so long ago, it had been taken from her, both the feeling and flesh-and-blood version. He could not begrudge her this moment of delight, even if it was at his expense.

Instead of grousing further, he smiled and kissed her, quickly capturing her mouth with his own, muffling her giggles until she was humming. Then inhaling and exhaling in time with him. Then making soft sounds that indicated she was interested in more.

He gave her that more once they were at the hotel.

In a near repeat of last weekend, they began undressing each other the minute they were safely behind the door. Their kisses were fevered as clothing fell to the floor in a trail, piece by piece. Their hands moved frantically, hunger taking precedence over paced rediscovery.

They didn't make it to the bed. He set her on the in-room desk instead and proceeded to take her with greedy intent.

It was hot and hard and wet and loud.

His hips met hers on each thrust and the slap of skin on skin and slurp of his erection advancing and retreating through her slick sex further excited him.

Her hands gripped his shoulders while he held her hips in place. Her panting breaths gusted into his mouth as they hovered close, noses aligned, brows almost touching.

It was sex. It was _great_ sex. It was _perfect_ sex.

Feeling his end near, he slid his left hand around to span her ass then the right down between them. He unerringly found what he was looking for.

"Come on," he rasped, rubbing her engorged bud with every intention of bringing her with him. "Come on, Cuddy."

"There," she gasped then buried her face in his neck with a thick moan of his name. She shuddered hard and clutched him inside and out. He leaned into her as he spilled, thrusting several times more before he stilled.

When he did, she kissed his neck, then his cheek, her lips grazing his whiskers.

"Wow," she breathed and he basked in the wonder he heard. He was feeling something similar, and more.

He nuzzled her a moment, brushing his lips along her neck then cheek, like she had his own. He looked at her and felt his heart tremble in his chest. She was devastatingly beautiful, eyes hooded and smoky, her lips swollen, hair tousled. He saw the more there, too, etched into her features, saturating her gaze.

_I love her. _

He thought it. He felt it. He expressed it, with a series of slow, tender kisses that made him want even more.

He eased his hands back to her hips and pulled her snug against him. Her legs tightened around him, securing him in place. He moved his hands to her back, caressing from her shoulders to the rise of her glorious ass, ghosting the elegant line of her spine. He caressed her flanks and ribs before covering her breasts. He moulded the soft mounds in time with their kisses while her hands stroked his body with affectionate confidence.

He felt wanted. He felt desired. He felt like he was home.

"Cuddy," he breathed, releasing her lips and pressing his brow to hers. Their skin was still damp with sweat.

"I know," she told him, her hand rising to flutter through his hair.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her chest to his. He held her close until his leg complained, the muscles in his thigh trembling from exertion.

She seemed to know and kissed him before easing her legs from around him. He stepped back slowly, his softened sex slipping from hers.

A feeling of loss came over him. He would have questioned and analyzed it to death if he was with anyone else but he was coming to expect the unexpected with her when it came to his emotions.

He held out a hand to her and steadied her as she hopped down. He noticed his seed sliding down her thigh and he thought it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. He reached out and cupped her but he couldn't say why he did. She let out a soft sound at his touch.

He glanced up at her. She was watching him, her gaze simultaneously curious and understanding.

"I've got it," she said softly, prompting him to ease his hand away. His eyes followed her as she went to the bathroom. Once she was out of sight, he stretched out on the bed and shut his eyes.

He must have dozed off because he startled when something warm touched his groin. He opened his eyes to see her clearing away their combined fluids from his penis. She was gentle and there was care in her touch. No one had ever quite touched him the way she did, even platonically.

Once she finished, she tossed the cloth toward the bathroom then sidled up next to him. He held out his arm so she could snuggle against his side. He liked when she did that. Her body felt good against his. He felt good, despite the ache in his thigh. The peace that had eluded him so much of his life was intensely present.

"I love you," he murmured, shifting his head just enough to kiss her hairline.

The muscles of her cheek bunched against his shoulder.

"I love you."


	62. Chapter 62

**Part 62**

He wasn't a fan of chain bookstores. He much preferred locally owned ones that specialized in older or rare texts, or second-hand shops.

When it came to paperbacks, he didn't mind a little cracking in the spine or feathering on the edges. He preferred hardbacks be in better shape, with undamaged dust jackets, especially if he planned to keep them. But there was something special about reading a book that someone else had, despite the germ factor.

He didn't have many sentimental quirks, but that was one.

Looking at the pristine volumes on the shelf in front of him, he sighed. They were, in a sense, as antiseptic as an operating room but held the possibility of something interesting within. It was either that or the publisher spent more money on the cover than the writer and the contents were the equivalent of clinic duty instead.

_Every book covers lie,_ he mused. Without the tell-tale markers of someone else having enjoyed it, it was difficult, if not impossible to know the quality of content. But then again, even those markers could lie.

"Find anything you like?"

He glanced down the aisle to the woman approaching. They had eaten a late lunch at the diner across the street — a concession to his desire for a cheeseburger that didn't taste like cardboard or a shoe sole — and now she was bringing him a cup of coffee.

Even if overpriced, he felt the coffee and sitting areas where buyers could peruse a book before purchasing were things the chain stores did right.

Shrugging in answer to her question, he took the cup from her when she offered it.

"Nothing stands out," he observed with a nod to the shelves.

Walking along the aisles, he'd noted that many covers were extremely similar in style, especially within genres, which made him wonder if the publishing houses used a single artist for all of them, or if their art departments conformed to the latest trends instead of creating something that would stand out from the crowd. The latter was not isolated to artists; medicine was rife with status-quo physicians.

Cuddy hummed and he heard her take a sip of her coffee.

"I can't remember the last time I read for the pure pleasure of it," she said and he'd expected as much.

"You work too much," he chided, without sounding critical.

"Maybe," she said then reached and pulled a book out from the shelf. It was science fiction.

He watched her curiously. He wouldn't have thought her interested in that genre. It was one he'd enjoyed growing up — one of his few good memories from adolescence was a summer his father spent stationed overseas while he and his mother remained stateside. He'd spent the entire time with his friends, what few he'd made, and a lot of time in Bobby Lancaster's treehouse, reading comics and _Dune_.

"I figured you for bodice rippers," he teased as she read the back of the book cover.

He watched a corner of her mouth turn up before she cut a look up at him. "Not since high school."

He felt the need to shock her. "I read one last week."

Her eyebrows climbed her forehead, as he'd expected, and her eyes searched his to see if he was telling the truth or not. He was.

The hospital library was sadly lacking. Most of the books were missing pages, some covers, and few were hardly intact enough to call books. But he'd found a beat up copy of a romance novel that appeared to at least have all its pages. The faded cover bore the image of a woman in a pink, period dress, displaying generous cleavage. He'd been certain the bosom was heaving. Okay, his imagination had supplied that part, but it had made him think of a certain pair of breasts, so he'd taken the book to read, casting her as the bodice wearer.

His plan hadn't been very well thought out, though, the content creating a necessity for privacy in a place that offered little. He'd been intensely glad he didn't have a roommate yet.

Glancing at the owner of the awesome cleavage he had access to, he smirked and she laughed. He could see she was about to tease him mercilessly over reading what most considered literature for desperately lonely, sexually unsatisfied housewives across the nation. He made a pre-emptive strike that he expected to amuse her further — and open himself up to further ridicule. He didn't like that usually, but he was feeling particularly masochistic at the moment.

"There were pirates in it," he said, in mock defense. "There was a ship on the cover and everything."

As predicted, she laughed and set the sci-fi book back on the shelf. She then took his free hand and led him away from that section — to the romance section.

"Let's find you some more reading material."

He decided the delight he heard in her voice was worth anything she had to dish out. He willingly followed her down the aisle, watched her gaze skim over the shelves. She breezed past the ones spine-out and looked at the ones with covers visible. When she found one with a particularly sexy woman on the cover, she picked it up and showed it to him.

"There's a ship and everything," she teased.

"That's a cruise ship," he pointed out. "I like pirates."

She snorted and put the book on the shelf and kept looking. He couldn't take his eyes off her. The energy she gave off was a rush for him. She'd been that way earlier, intensely alive and excited, albeit in a different way. He was still the focus of her attention, which is why he humored her when she showed him several more books. But then she hit the next section of books and stopped.

_Erotica_… The covers were sensual, edgy.

From where he stood, he could see tantalizing, partial images of women. One of a woman from behind, bound at the wrists and elbows. Another featured a hand holding a riding crop, fingernails bright red while the rest of the image was black and white. And another had a woman in profile, back arched, head falling back, a man's forearm concealing her breasts from view as he kissed her sternum.

_Hot._

He glanced at his lover and saw her eyes roving over the shelves, from the top to the bottom. She took her time and he saw that her pulse had picked up pace, the visual evidence there at the base of her neck. He had no doubt her pupils had dilated and if she were to look at him now, he'd undoubtedly see desire.

He wondered if she saw herself in any of the images. He wondered if she wanted to be in any of those positions.

"See something you like?" he asked, his words almost a mirror of hers earlier.

After a moment, she looked away from the books and up to him. He saw desire and a question forming. But she didn't voice it.

"Maybe," she said, a sexy smile flirting with the line of her mouth, making him really want to know what question was running around in her equally sexy brain.

He released her hand but stepped closer, easing behind her and hovering close. He knew she would react to his proximity, the suggestive nature of it when he reached past her and set his coffee on the top shelf while slipping his other hand around her waist.

"Which one intrigued you?"

She was on the verge of breathless when she replied. "If I show you, we'll have to go back to the hotel."

He smiled and nestled his cheek against hers. "How is _that_ a bad thing?"

"You wanted to get out for a while," she said.

"Maybe now I want to _get in_," he replied.

She trembled a little and he did, too. Things always escalated quickly between them. Bantering suggestively would get them there as fast as anything.

"You always want in," she accused.

He would never deny that. "_You_ always want me in," he breathed.

She leaned her head against his then he watched her hand rise to the shelf and discreetly point out a cover:

_Partial images. Partial profile. A woman with a man knelt behind her. Both naked. The man's hand covered the woman sex, reaching up between her legs from behind rather than around. The man was nuzzling the base of the woman's spine._

Not kinky but a more visually provocative version of what he'd done earlier with her.

"Evocative," he whispered.

She nodded then pointed out another book — kinky this time.

_Again partial images. A woman laying across the lap of a man, her ass in the air. She wore a thong, exposing her cheeks to a hand that rested on the back of one of her thighs. The man's other arm was across the woman's back. _

House had given Cuddy a firm pat on the ass a time or two during sex and she'd never complained, but she'd also never indicated she might be interested in actually being _spanked _as the image implied. It had never occurred to him that _that_ would appeal to her.

"Really?" he ventured, his voice as soft as he could make it. In the past, he probably would have shouted, anything to draw attention, but he couldn't now. Not when she shifted so she could to see him. She looked vulnerable and uncertain — whether of his response or of her own desires, he couldn't say, but she definitely wasn't confident about what she'd just revealed.

"Maybe," she said then her gaze fell to his mouth. "I want to go now," she breathed.

He agreed and took hold of her hand before retrieving his coffee.


	63. Chapter 63

**Part 63**

"You've never done it?"

She put the question to him as they lay naked in bed atop the covers. She was preoccupied and had been since they'd undressed, enough that they hadn't had sex yet.

He was currently on his side while she lay on her stomach, her face toward him as her head rested on her folded arms. He was caressing her back in lazy circles and gentle strokes, hoping to ease the awkwardness that was trying to set in.

"No," he said, then confessed, "I'm not quite as kinky as people believe."

"As you want them to believe," she corrected with a little smile.

He returned the expression and rested his palm on the rise of her ass. He brushed his fingertips back and forth in the little dip at the base of her spine. He watched gooseflesh rise on her shoulder and along her arms.

"It's not the sort of thing you do unless you know it's wanted," he said, meeting her gaze.

"You've never been asked?"

"No," he said, then answered what he thought she might ask next, "And I've never asked."

Pain and humiliation weren't his gig and he knew it wasn't hers either. But people sometimes wanted, even needed, things that made no sense on the surface but made perfect sense when examined closer. Sexual wants and desires, even sexuality itself, were amongst the most psychologically complex aspects of the human condition.

"Have you?" he asked, seeking a reciprocal confession.

She shook her head, the motion limited by her position. "I don't know why it affected me."

"_Aroused you_," he corrected her this time and she accepted it with a soft "yes."

He shared some of his thoughts.

"Ninety-nine percent of sex is psychological and not even about the physical act," he said. "Which means as a species, statistically, the key to arousal resides largely in the brain."

"Or the heart," she said softly, her eyes watching his when she added, "Pleasure wasn't why I asked you to stay that night."

He ceased his caress then slid his hand up to her back and rested it between her shoulder blades. "You wanted comfort. To forget your pain."

"Which is why it makes no sense that I found _that_ image arousing. There's no way that doesn't hurt," she said and he heard her confusion.

"Pain isn't the goal," he said, certain of that assessment if nothing else. She wouldn't have found it intriguing if it was about that — and neither would he. He'd had enough pain to date to last him ten lifetimes.

"It's more a … _treatment._ Like insulin for diabetes," she said and he found himself smiling again.

"You want to do a DDx on possible underlying psychological conditions that suggest intimate spanking as a treatment?"

She smiled but any humor she might be feeling didn't reach her eyes. The situation clearly bothered her more than she was saying.

"Or maybe it's just the taboo nature of it?" she suggested.

"Maybe," he conceded. "Sometimes people want what religion and society at large tell them is wrong, just because it is considered that. It isn't a conscious desire so much as a latent one. Like the kid who is told they can't have a cookie from the open jar. Even though they'd never asked for it, it suddenly becomes the thing they most desire."

A heartbeat. The length of a relaxed breath.

"Would you do it if I asked?"

Her question took him off-guard. It shouldn't have, not after the store and the conversation they were having, but it made him confront his potential role in the act, with her, and…

"I don't know," he murmured, shaking his head, confused. Would he? If she asked, if she wanted him to bring her pain, at his hand, could he—

"That was an unfair question," she said almost within moments and he saw guilt rising.

Despite his own confusion, he offered her assurances, which was something he wouldn't have done in the past. "It's a reasonable question."

"But one that didn't need to be asked now," she said then started to move.

A light pressure from his hand kept her where she was, though. She looked at him in question but he just leaned down and kissed her shoulder. He lingered there and focused on the softness of her skin beneath his lips, fearing any further conversation on the matter would upset them both. He had enough upsetting conversations on the horizon as it was; Nolan would be pushing more for him to talk about things that he would rather just forget. He didn't want that here and now. He wanted her, to be close to her, and he didn't even care at this point if they had sex. He just wanted—

"House?"

"Yeah," he breathed against her skin then kissed her shoulder again.

"Are you okay?"

Lifting his head, he caught her gaze. She was worried. He knew what she needed to hear but he couldn't say it. And she knew it.

He watched her expression shift from worry to tenderness. She began to move again and this time, he didn't stop her. Turning onto her side, she reached for him as she aligned her body with his. The feel of her skin against his was a balm.

They settled their heads on the same pillow and he brought his hand up and caressed her cheek. He tried to think of what to say only to be reminded that he sucked at this part of relationships. It had gradually become easier with her but he hadn't had a lot of practice at it. In emotionally uncomfortable or uncertain situations, his first instinct was always to avoid; his second was to lash out and retreat.

He didn't want to do either of those things now, which he considered progress, but it didn't mean he knew any better what words to use. He was decidedly better with actions with her so he fell back on those, easing his hand to her shoulder then sending is slowly across her back. Her gaze flickered and she sought a kiss. He gave it and it was soft and loving. He took comfort in it and in her acceptance of him, whatever his shortcomings.

When it ended, she pressed her brow to his and stayed close.

"I'm sorry," she whispered softly between them. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know," he cut her off and tried not to think about it again. But he failed.

If she knew what his life had been like as a kid, she probably wouldn't have asked the question. A part of him definitely wished she hadn't, even though it was an understandable one. It was too soon to address it, for a multitude of reasons — all of which related to his screwed-up upbringing.

Maybe it was selfish and he was a complete wuss, but he needed sex with her to be what it had been from the start. It was too important a line of communication with her. Through it, he could show her what he felt when he didn't have words or "I love you" was inadequate to express the whole of it. He didn't want to lose the sense of safety it gave him, which gave him permission to let his guard down and find that unique degree of peace he'd only ever found with her.

He needed it especially now, as he stood on the cusp of dealing with the cesspool of his past — the drugs and hookers, the things he'd done to himself, what he'd done to others, what he'd done to _her_. He had chosen to do those things but what had spawned the man capable of making those choices all traced back to another man.

House had always known, although he'd never directly confronted it. He'd thought hating his father would be enough. He'd thought the bastard's dying would be enough. But clearly neither had been enough to make him change, or even want to change, except in rare moments of despairing hope, when he wanted to be anything other than miserable.

No, the desire to change he could attribute to having the beautiful woman in his arms. She was as flawed and screwed up as he was in some ways, but she dared love him. And she dared let him love her. He could not raise his hand to her, even for her pleasure, not while the specter of John House's hand loomed over him. It was more than he could handle and he found himself telling her what he'd never told anyone before.

"An open hand was his first weapon of choice."

As soon as the words passed his lips, he shuddered and something broke inside him. She stilled immediately and he knew if he looked at her, he would see shock and probably tears. So he didn't look and he didn't say anything else. But she spoke, saying the only thing he was prepared to hear as he faced the darkest of his memories.

"I won't ever ask."


	64. Chapter 64

**Part 64**

Flames licked the log she'd added to the fireplace a short bit ago. The bark was charred and cracked in new patterns and some places glowed orange, the color dimming in brightening in rhythm.

_Like respiration_, she observed as she sat cross-legged in front of the hearth.

In her hands, she held a glass of red wine. The surface of the liquid reflected the firelight. She noted the shimmer whenever she took a sip.

Beside her, papers from work sat untouched. She had only been home a few hours, having left Mayfield later in the afternoon than she'd planned. But she hadn't wanted to leave until he'd been ready to let her go.

Yesterday… What he'd said…

Nolan had been right: childhood trauma.

Tears welled as she remembered how _exposed_ House had looked after he'd told her, when he'd finally been able to meet her gaze. She had seen, in that moment, the boy he had been. Sensitive and bright with a insatiable sense of curiosity that surely outstripped his peers, and none of it appreciated by a totalitarian father.

She didn't know anything more than the one thing he'd shared but it had been enough to see him in a new light. All she'd had to do was separate the man she'd come to know in recent weeks from all the self-destructive, hurtful, and antisocial things he'd said and done over the years and a clear picture of that boy, now a man, emerged.

She had only made it a few miles away from Mayfield before she'd had to pull over, into the parking lot of a bargain store, and cry. She had somehow managed to keep her tears at bay the rest of last night and this morning, not wanting him to see her weep for him. It was the last thing he'd needed, much less wanted. He would have thought it pity, in every negative sense of the word. But it wasn't. It was grief, for that hurt little boy and the man who carried the still-bleeding wounds.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she thought about how they'd made love in the early morning hours, after a night of restless sleep. It had been so tender and she'd fought off the urge to cry when he kissed her and touched her with such reverence, in mirror of her own attentions to him.

She'd wanted to make him feel important and loved, for who he is.

_That's all anyone ever wants_, she thought, and yet she didn't think he'd ever had that, not fully, because he hid himself away. She hoped the wall he'd built around him would continue to erode and free him to be happy, to move beyond the pain corralled within. She hoped that telling her that one thing would make it easier for him to tell his psychiatrist the same, and more.

"You're okay," she'd encouraged him as they kissed goodbye beside her car.

He'd nodded and stared into her eyes for several long moments before kissing her one more time. She'd waited until he was inside before leaving, wanting to be there if he needed to say one more thing, or a hug, or a kiss, or whatever.

She had rarely been able to wholly deny him anything over the years, and she definitely couldn't now, not where this was concerned.

She knew what it was to have an overbearing parent, but even at her worst, her mother had never physically harmed her or her sister. Yes, she nagged, was condescending, and impossible to please, but never violent.

_There is no justification for that, ever._

Abuse was abuse. Be it verbal or physical, whatever the degree, it all affected the human psyche. For children, though, it was particularly damaging.

Formative years were supposed to be filled with love and nurturing, not neglect and brutality.

Children were supposed to live carefree and adventurous, encouraged to follow their dreams and use their gifts for good things, not made to feel ashamed of or punished for who they are. They weren't supposed to be commended in one moment and condemned in the next.

They should never have to worry about their survival. They should never be made scapegoats for the shame of the abuser. They should never be made so fearful that they isolate themselves from the people who would and did love them. And they should never be made to devalue themselves to the point they commit the most heinous atrocities against their own person.

And that was the abuser's perpetual _gift_ to their victims: Never-ending self-punishment.

Until the child, grown or not, put an end to it, until the negative script written by the abuser was positively rewritten, there could be no significant healing. No reclaiming of self.

_And that's what House is trying to do. _

She prayed he not only reclaimed the man he'd been before the infarction and drugs, but found peace for the boy who'd had his childhood stolen. The man who could potentially emerge from it would be someone really special.

_Even more special than he already is._

The thought of a truly happy Greg House, his sense of humor and genius free of the inner torment his father induced, filled her with happiness and love. She wanted that for him more than she'd ever wanted anything for herself. Including a child.

Before she could pursue that train of thought and stir other feelings, her mobile rang. It lay beside the bottle of wine on the hearth. She answered it and smiled when she heard the voice of the man she'd just been thinking of.

_"What are you wearing?"_

She laughed as she wiped away the tears on her cheek. She tried not to sniffle and hoped he couldn't hear that she'd cried earlier.

"Your blue shirt," she happily told him.

_"And the bottom half?"_

"Yoga pants."

_"Underneath?"_

"Nothing."

He groaned. _"You are evil."_

"You asked," she teased and he didn't miss a beat in responding.

_"Wanna have phone sex?"_

It was asked with the expected enthusiasm and she snorted at hearing it. No matter where he came out on the other side of things with counseling, she had no doubt his penchant for lewdness would _never_ change. Not that she was complaining. She liked being naughty with him, something that would mortify her mother and sister. And maybe even Wilson.

"Is that wise?"

_"It's funny how you think suggesting it _unwise_ might make me reconsider?"_

She laughed again and smiled at him even though he couldn't see her.

"What was I thinking?" she said facetiously and heard his smirk when he responded.

_"You were thinking how hot it would be to get off to the sound of my voice."_

"Oh, yes, that," she said, loving the playfulness.

_"Where are you?"_ he asked and she knew he was trying to picture her. She was not above finding that flattering — and sexy.

"My living room," she said softly then took another sip of her wine.

_"Fire going?"_

"Mmm-hmm."

_"Wine?"_

"Yes."

_"Any other lights on?"_

His voice was getting softer and lower with each question.

"No," she said, matching his tone.

She heard him take a breath as he processed. She imagined his eyes were closed, his expression somewhere between intensity and serenity. It's how he looked when he wanted her. She was also not unaffected by that mental image of him.

_"Are you working?" _he asked then.

"I should be," she answered.

He murmured low into the receiver, _"You should be under me."_

She wished she was and whispered, "You should be inside me."

_"I always want to be inside you."_

It was said so earnestly her heart skipped a beat.

"I always want to kiss you," she breathed.

_"That too,"_ he agreed then took another breath, this one deep and slow. She loved hearing that and the slight unsteadiness and what he said next. _"And sleep."_

She wanted that, too. More than she wanted the other things.

"Insomnia?" she asked.

_"Haven't gone to bed yet,"_ he replied then confessed, _"I wanted to talk to you first."_

Her insides fluttered with a sense of weightlessness. Love. That's what she felt. It was heady knowing that he found comfort in her.

"I'm glad you called," she told him truthfully then risked inciting his ego. "I was just thinking about you."

_"Fantasizing about my hot bod?"_

He hadn't been said with the same degree of playfulness that he'd used earlier, but it still made her smile.

"I was thinking about how much I love you," she told him.

He said her name in response and it was saturated with the emotion she'd verbalized. Her tears returned, welling as her heart swelled in her breast.

"I know," she whispered, "I know."


	65. Chapter 65

**Part 65**

He leaned heavily on his cane as he limped back and forth at the far end of Nolan's office, only occasionally pausing to look outside. His face muscles ached from scowling and a headache was forming behind his eyes. He was going to have to soak in one of the therapy tubs to get the muscles in his neck to relax, not to mention his back.

"Why do you think he did things to you?"

That was the question that triggered House's current state of frustration and it had been the first one out of Nolan's mouth for the session.

For nearly a week, House had meted out vague references to his dad here and there, hinting at the violence that he'd been subjected to as a boy, just enough for Nolan to do the math. For some reason, he thought that would be enough but Nolan was pressing for more.

_Always more. _

House wanted him to stop and there were two ways of dealing with it. He could leave or he could say the words resounding in his mind, that he'd only half-acknowledged for years. All he had to do was say that John House had been a heartless bastard who cared more about his duty and fellow soldiers than he had the boy who he claimed his son.

The words were the verbal equivalent of battery acid but he couldn't seem to spit them out despite how they burned his tongue and soured his stomach. He hadn't even been able to say them to Cuddy. But she hadn't pushed him to talk about it like Nolan was doing.

"Short answer? He was a dick," House said, finally, getting at least that thought out. But he felt no relief because Nolan wouldn't leave it there.

"And the long answer?" the doctor prodded.

House spun awkwardly to face the dark-skinned man, who he was coming to trust more, and sometimes loathe. He was feeling the latter right now.

"Why does it matter?" House snapped.

"Because it matters to you," Nolan said. "You can't tell me you don't want to know why you were mistreated."

"He's dead so I'm pretty sure I'll never get an answer to that," House lashed out. "Not that he would have told me anything while he'd still been breathing. That would have meant admitting he'd done something wrong."

"And he didn't do that?"

The headache was getting worse and his whole body tensed.

"Why would he? It's not like anyone ever pointed it out," House complained. "He was the perfect husband and soldier. No one would believe it."

"Not even your mother?"

That question took up residence in House's churning gut like a lead brick. He didn't want to talk about his mother, probably more than he didn't want to talk about his father. And he didn't want to talk about why either.

"She is my mother," House said and Nolan called him on the non-answer.

"So that's a 'no'?"

There was no smugness, only genuine concern in the man's features. The sincerity grated although House couldn't say why.

"I don't know what it is," House snapped. "I don't know what she said to him. Kids should be seen and not heard, right? Or better yet, neither seen or heard."

Nolan asked another question. "You felt invisible?"

"_If only_," House sneered, remembering that when he'd still had faith in some greater being, he'd prayed for the ability to actually vanish. It had been his most common prayer. But there'd been no escape — escaping always made it worse.

"Did he hit you?"

"What if he did? How does telling you help?" House pleaded. It was a question he had often asked himself over the years, and he'd humiliated others for thinking that divulging details would somehow make things better. "It won't change what happened. It won't retroactively make him less of a dick. You can't go back in time and punch him in the face."

"Did he hit you, Greg?" Nolan pressed, his expression earnest and concerned, and something in his tone of voice set House off.

Rage flared through him and unleashed his tongue in blistering fashion.

"What do you want to hear? That he slapped me around when I spoke out of turn? That he beat me with a belt when I did something he _really_ didn't like, which was pretty much anything that didn't give glory to God, country, _and_ the Corps?" he seethed.

"Or do you want to hear about how he made me sleep in the yard for missing curfew or wouldn't let me eat if I was late to dinner? Surely you've heard those are scientifically proven methods of improving punctuality in eleven-year-olds? But hey, it's not like a kid needs food or shelter, right? Rain, it's no big deal? Snow, even less of one? Summer heat, _pfft_? Any weather is a dream vacation for a Marine," he spit out then cocked his head and forced a smile.

"Better yet, did you ever hear the one about the kid who didn't look both ways before crossing the street and ended up in an ice bath? It's hilarious. And valuable preparation for any winter special ops mission in North Korea you find yourself drafted into at the age of seven. That happens all the time, right?"

The last syllable of his indictment came out as a shout and his rage went with it, replaced by a sense of depletion. Then the world suddenly seemed to tilt, screwing with his equilibrium and obscuring mental clarity.

His ears rang as his rational mind metaphorically grasped for the latter, and missed. His heart pounded and his lungs burned. He felt like he'd just run a marathon, in thirty seconds, and left his breath somewhere around the finish line.

He reached for the back of the chair nearest him and somehow managed to lower himself into it. He dropped his cane along the way and it landed on the floor in a muted clatter. He shut his eyes and tried to count, to focus, and stave of impending hyperventilation.

He heard Nolan saying his name and asking him if he was all right, but he couldn't answer. His rational mind was clocking out for lunch as primal thoughts ran roughshod through his gray matter.

Every single thing he'd described to Nolan was playing on a loop in his brain and he couldn't shut it off. The images were vivid, the voices and cries loud, the sensations and emotions as real as they had been when they'd happened decades ago.

He hurt. He felt cold and hot. He was sweaty and suffocating. Terror was rapidly becoming his only state of mind.

Though lost in the firestorm of memory, some part of his brain still managed to register hands touching him, his neck and wrist. He heard Nolan talking again, not to him but someone. There was cold in the bend of his elbow then a sharp, quick pain followed.

_A sedative_, his logical mind supplied when his thoughts quickly began to slow and drift.

He said two words before the world went dark.

"Get Cuddy."


	66. Chapter 66

**Part 66**

Cool fingers were holding his hand and gently stroking his brow. Those were the first things that registered as he slowly stirred to wakefulness. The next was a voice that he'd know anywhere, just as he'd recognized the touch.

Cuddy… She was speaking softly with someone.

Nolan… His voice came from the opposite side of the bed.

"You've done this before," the man said.

"Yes," she responded, her voice soft but the word weighted in meaning. Then she asked a question. "You've kept him under?"

"The staff says he's had trouble sleeping so I thought it would be best for him to rest," Nolan replied then added with audible pride, "He took a huge step today. The kind most people break down into multiple small ones."

"He doesn't do things like most people," she said and House heard her amusement, and pride. There was a pause then she spoke again, to him. "I know you're awake."

He was awake, but the sedative still had a substantial grip. He had to force his eyes open. When he did, Nolan snickered. House avoided looking at him because he didn't want to see the smile that came with the sound. Besides, Cuddy was way better to look at.

_And that's a colossal understatement,_ he declared as his eyes fell on her cleavage. He couldn't help it; the way she was leaning over him the girls were practically in his direct line of sight.

"Wow," he slurred more than spoke despite feeling his mind clearing. He wasn't sure why because his blood flow was probably plotting a southerly course by now.

"My eyes are up here, Romeo," she chided and he heard Nolan excuse himself, chuckling under his breath as he did.

House sought out her gaze and saw worry banked behind love. She was smiling gently at him. "I think you may have scared the hell out of Nolan."

"He's unflappable," he disagreed then asked, concerned, "You?"

"A little maybe," she said, her expression soft. "But I've known you for nearly a quarter century. I generally know when it's time to panic."

He frowned, not at what she said but the memory of what'd happened earlier, what he'd said, how he'd reacted…

"I had a panic attack," he said and she nodded. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, he brought up his free hand and ran it over his face. As he did, he noted the IV and tubing and looked at it.

"Want me to take it out?" she asked.

"Yeah."

As she moved away, he noted they were in the small medical ward on the floor for non-crazies. There were only a handful of beds and he was in the one farthest from the entrance.

_For privacy?_

He saw Nolan at the staff desk by the door, chatting with a nurse. He then watched Cuddy turn off the drip and remove the venous catheter from the back of his hand. She disposed of the needle in the proper bin then gently cleaned the area and applied a small pressure bandage.

He welcomed the feel of her hand taking his when she came back around and sat beside the bed.

"I'm proud of you," she said after a moment.

He frowned. He didn't feel panicked but he felt … _something_.

"Did he tell you?" he asked tentatively, not sure what he wanted the answer to be.

She shook her head. "Just that you talked to him. The rest is for you to tell, when you're ready."

"Do you want to know?" He would be surprised if she didn't. Her sense of curiosity was almost as acute as his, especially about him.

She squeezed his fingers gently. "I want it to be your choice," she said softly. "That you told Nolan is more important right now. He can help you better than I can in this," she continued but then teased, "Besides, I just want you for your body."

He smirked, appreciating the levity, and being the object of her objectification, even in jest. It kept him from chasing the white rabbit into the dark hole he'd been in earlier. Once was enough for the day.

"It's the limp, isn't it? Chicks dig the limp."

Her eyes sparkled and she let him have his deflection. "And the extra wood," she chimed in.

That answer had him wanting to kiss her but hearing the footfalls announcing Nolan's return terminated any thoughts he had of requesting one.

"I'm sure you know the drill," the psychiatrist said as he stopped beside the bed. "Give me another half-an-hour here and I'll release you to the ward to rest. Dr. Cuddy," he said, glancing at the woman holding House's hand, "is welcome to stay with you."

Unable to resist, House asked, "Can she bunk over?"

Nolan looked throughly amused and let out a soft laugh. Cuddy looked amused in her own way but House saw that a sleepover wasn't in the cards. _Work_, he thought but her explanation was a surprise.

"Wilson was in my office when I got the call. He insisted on coming."

House frowned. He hadn't expected that.

"Where is he?" he asked Cuddy but Nolan answered.

"Waiting in my office. I gathered he wasn't privy to the exact nature of your relationship so I told him only one visitor at a time."

House didn't like that answer and yet he would live with it. Much as he didn't want Cuddy to swap out with his friend, he liked even less the idea of Wilson picking up on the changes in his relationship with Cuddy.

He looked to her for her opinion on the subject and she gave it promptly. "He means well but I'm not ready for the inquisition."

"Me neither," he sighed.

She smiled at him then slowly leaned down and kissed him, right in front of his doctor. It was a soft and affectionate pressing of lips that he would have liked to extend and deepen but…

"I'll send him in," she said of Wilson when her mouth eased from his. "But I plan to steal a proper one of those before I head back," she teased then righted herself.

She looked a little self-conscious when she glanced at Nolan but the other doctor's delighted smile seemed to put her at ease.

"I'll walk you down," he said then nodded to House.

As they moved away, Nolan briefly placed his hand on the small of Cuddy's back before falling into step beside her. House felt a twinge of possessiveness at seeing it, even though it was a perfectly chivalrous gesture. It was a silly response but that didn't stop him from having it. Or taking a parting shot.

"Don't bother flirting, o shrinker of heads," he practically shouted. "She only likes guys with genius IQs and bum legs."

Nolan flashed him a grin while Cuddy shot him a devilish one that stirred his blood.

"Evil woman," he muttered under his breath then grinned when she winked at him before disappearing out the door.


	67. Chapter 67

**Part 67**

She took the warm cup of tea with a soft "thank you."

"You're welcome," Nolan responded.

She watched him smile as he settled into the chair across from her. His voice was warm and kind and she noted an almost amused aspect to his visage. From their previous conversations, she thought it almost seemed the default state for his features. For his eyes, it was curiosity.

"You have questions," she said, opening the conversation she could see he clearly wanted to have.

"Dr. Wilson. He's Greg's best friend and I'd say he's probably your friend, too, so…"

"Why are we keeping our relationship secret from him?"

"Yes," Nolan said, clearly delighted that she'd followed his train of thought. "If you're of a mind to share."

"Wilson's a good friend," she said softly, wanting that established, "But when he finds out there will be a million and one questions that we're not ready to answer."

"So you're not just doing it because Greg's in rehab," he observed.

She smiled at him. "House's focus needs to be here right now, but it's not the sole reason. We've confronted the subject almost weekly from the start and the answer has always come back the same."

"Is it because of your roles in the workplace?"

"Partially, but mainly because Wilson's something of a gossip … and a well-meaning, if unsubtle matchmaker."

Nolan grinned. "He's been trying to get you two together."

_The man is highly astute. Which is why House finds him both helpful and frustrating_, she mused.

"The simple answer is that he wants his friends to be happy," she said, cradling her teacup in her hands. "And he would be happy for us, probably over the moon, but he won't just take it in stride. He'll want details, especially about when and what changed, and frankly, neither of us wants _that_ to be potential grist for the hospital rumor mill."

"It's too personal," she added, her voice wavering and tinged with the grief she still felt whenever she thought too long.

She kept it at bay as she watched another question take form behind Nolan's dark eyes and knitted brow. The expression reminded her of a certain someone whose thought process also often manifested visually. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what Nolan's query was, though. He'd undoubtedly heard her, which made her all the more relieved when he didn't pursue the subject.

"Do you think he won't keep your confidence?"

"He wouldn't do it on purpose, House and I both agree on that. But Wilson's not always discreet when it comes to us," she said. "He has always been our most visible and vocal cheerleader, for years. Even if we don't tell him anything more than that we've been seeing each other, he knows us well enough to figure out when it began and the catalyst without us divulging either. And it's not a leap for others to draw the same conclusions. What happened … it wasn't exactly a secret."

In fact, for her, it had been too public in the end. And she believed that had been an unacknowledged, driving factor in her wanting to keep things with House private. Most would believe he'd taken advantage of her anyway. They would never understand that he had been _her_ choice.

Nolan watched her with concern as she processed her thoughts. She knew he wanted to ask, and it was more than just a professional curiosity. It was professional, period.

"I'm okay," she told him and he gave her a dubious look, prompting her to clarify, "I'm better."

"Have you talked to a counselor?"

She smiled. Her _counselor_ had been and still was House, his presence and steadfastness enough for her to find footing and begin the process of healing. But she kept that to herself.

"Do you count?" she asked.

Nolan flashed a grin. "Now that's the sort of answer I'd expect from Greg."

She didn't even bother denying it, although she did feel a little chastened, thanks to her _perverse_ sense of guilt. She started to apologize but Nolan spoke first.

"Sarcasm is a great tool for deflection against most people, but not psychiatrists," he said, his smile gentling. "So let me ask directly. Have you talked about this … _catalyst_ … with someone other than Greg?"

"No," she said softly, knowing she might have done so if things had played out differently — when she would have been alone with her grief. But she hadn't been, and she hadn't really felt a need to talk to anyone else, not even now. That's what she told Nolan and that she didn't think she'd been ignoring it.

"It still hurts," she said, "and I still think about her, but it doesn't come with the same pain as it did at first."

"_Her_?" Nolan asked.

Her heart skipped a long beat, when she realized what she'd unknowingly and unintentionally revealed. She forced herself to take a deep breath and blinked away the extra moisture that threatened to gather in her eyes.

Nolan was watching her carefully, his smile long gone, genuine concern replacing it. She nodded and elaborated, suspecting that the subject could come up at some point with House. If she talked to Nolan now, it might help then.

"I was adopting a child," she began, taking a slow breath to calm her rapidly beating heart. "But the mother changed her mind just after giving birth."

"Long enough to form an attachment," Nolan said.

"I saw her through the last months of her pregnancy, made sure she had proper medical care and nutrition," she confessed, for some reason needing him to understand how long she'd had time to form that attachment.

He looked grieved for her and she looked away from him, down at the teacup cradled in her hands. The contents were untouched, as they always seemed to be whenever she sat down with Nolan.

She took another deep breath and relayed more about what'd happened. House and Wilson knew because they'd both been there, so she'd never actually related the whole of it to anyone.

Nolan offered her a box of tissues when her eyes misted over as she talked about the failed IVF and miscarriage and how House had helped her then. She took it and set her tea aside when she told him about her excitement and fears surrounding Joy. How awful House had been to her, trying to tell her she wasn't ready for motherhood and that she'd have been a terrible mother. And then how he'd shown up that night and done the completely unexpected, negating every hurtful action and word with healing ones. She didn't get into intimate details but said enough for Nolan to have a fairly clear idea of how things had changed for them that night and that it had continued to grow and evolve to the point House felt the need to work on himself.

"Coming here was his choice," she said. "He never discussed it with me. He just decided he wanted to be better and took the steps necessary."

"You're proud of him," Nolan said, his smile flickering to life once more. "You should be. It takes a lot of courage for an addict to make that decision on their own, without an intervention or reaching the point it's a matter of life-or-death."

"Despite the difficulty of detoxing and counseling, he is happy," she said, dabbing at the tears gathered on her lashes, careful not to smear her mascara. "I've never seen him as happy as he is now."

"It's evident he feels safe with you," Nolan said. "He didn't have that growing up and I don't know that he's ever allowed himself to develop a deep enough bond to truly experience it with anyone else. It's good that he has that, but it does put you in a potentially co-dependent situation."

"You're not wrong," she said solemnly, using a phrase that House often did. It wasn't something she liked to think about and she and House hadn't discussed it. But it would need to be discussed in the future because she had done her fair share of enabling over the years. "But believe me that no one knows better than I do what I'm getting into with House. And he knows what he gets in me."

"I don't doubt that," Nolan said, a corner of his mouth quirking up. "But at some point, if you both agree, I'd like to have a joint session on the subject. I believe it would be beneficial for you both."

She didn't disagree. It probably would, but there was no guarantee House would agree.

"I have no objection," she told Nolan but decided silently that if House didn't, she would meet with the doctor alone. She was committed to House and if the psychiatrist had any guidance to offer, she would gladly listen.

Nolan smiled, clearly pleased with her answer. He started to say something else, but the door to the office, on Cuddy's left, opened suddenly. She didn't even need to look to know it was House. She didn't even need to hear him.

Only he would make that kind of entrance.


	68. Chapter 68

**Part 68**

She looked over to see her lover wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He had sneakers on and Wilson was behind him, scolding him for not knocking.

It was such a familiar thing — what he'd done and what his friend was doing. So was House's expression, full of his trademark, frenetic energy. No one would guess that a few hours ago, he'd had to be sedated in this very room.

She smiled but he didn't when he looked at her.

Deep furrows appeared across his brow and she knew why. His eyes missed nothing. Despite her efforts to remove the evidence of her tears, he'd clearly seen them. Then, just as quickly as the expression appeared, it disappeared. He fixed a grouchy look on Wilson before launching into his unique version of chivalry.

"You're an idiot. I told you she wouldn't bring the whips and chains here," he groused, leaving Wilson blinking and opening and closing his mouth like fish. Confused and flustered — Wilson was often the poster boy for those emotions.

Cuddy caught Nolan's gaze for a split second and saw he didn't seem shocked at all.

But then again, he's been in close quarters with House for a couple weeks.

Donning an irritated but tolerant expression, one that was second nature to her, Cuddy stood and faced House.

"Doesn't that joke ever get old?"

He looked at her and she saw him make a quick assessment, clearly making sure of how he should respond. The deference to her feelings was appreciated and so different than how things used to be.

"Nope, it's a classic," he declared.

She stepped up and fixed him with a look that made his eyes brighten. God, he loved jerking her chain — and she was no better.

"You're a classic ass," she declared then glanced over at Nolan. "Would it be possible to borrow your office for a few minutes? I have something I need to discuss with Dr. House."

"Sure," Nolan said and he eased past them. He gave Cuddy a secretive little smile before ducking out into the hall with Wilson.

Cuddy felt tension leave her once the door was shut, leaving her and House alone.

Her gaze found his, concerned again. His blue eyes searched hers and she smiled and laid a hand on his chest, loving that she could and that he not only allowed the contact but welcomed it. She felt him physically ease under her touch.

"He was curious about why we were keeping Wilson in the dark about us. I told him about Joy," she said, explaining the reason for her tears. There was no point in keeping it from him; he would figure it out anyway.

"How are you feeling?" she then asked, addressing her concerns for him.

"Okay," he said with a little nod.

His voice had taken on that low, gentle timbre that always seemed to emerge when they were alone. His eyes were equally soft with affection. She wondered if it was wrong to find immense pleasure in knowing he felt safe enough to be _present_ with her in the moment, not anticipating an escape or conflict.

She moved her hand from his chest, up to caress his cheek and the stubble there. She had missed the feel of it, his warmth.

"Kiss me," she whispered, ghosting her thumb across his bottom lip.

He gave her what she wanted, easing his arms around her waist as his mouth descended to caress hers. She melted into the kiss, leaning into his chest, touching her tongue to his as she inhaled his scent.

Wonderful as it was, though, she was frustrated that they were standing in Nolan's office with Wilson out in the hall. She desperately wanted to feel House's skin against hers but wasn't going to happen here, or at all today. He knew it, too.

"Clip Henny Penny's wings next time," House murmured when he eased his mouth from hers. She hummed and looked up at him.

"You love him and you know it," she accused.

"I love you," he began, "Him—"

"You do," she cut him off, her voice soft but confident.

He scowled, half-heartedly, but didn't protest further. She really hadn't expected him to, though he probably would have in the past. She was glad he wasn't hiding that part of himself as much anymore.

"I wish I could stay longer," she said then, trailing her fingers along his neck. She stroked his pulse point with her thumb, felt the steady rhythm of his heart. "But I'm afraid he'll get suspicious."

"Yeah," he said under his breath. He caressed her lower back and suddenly looked weary.

"You need to rest," she said, medically assessing the change.

"It's exhausting … _this_." His eyes darted around the room as he said it.

"One step at a time," she consoled him.

He smirked. "My kind of step or others'?"

She smiled, remembering what Nolan had said earlier as they stood at House's bedside.

"Whatever works for you," she said but then made a plea, "But do try to be gentle with yourself. You're safe. You can say whatever you need to," she said then smiled when a thought came to her. "If it helps, think of Dr. Nolan as your whiteboard."

That netted a full-on smile from her lover. "I'm going to tell him you said that."

She rolled her eyes even though she liked seeing his good humor return. "House, I'm serious."

He was quiet a moment then leaned in to touch his lips to her brow. He lingered.

"I diagnose myself," he murmured. It wasn't quite a question but she still answered it.

"In a sense," she said, closing her eyes and basking in the closeness. "You're evaluating the symptoms to find and understand the underlying cause. Then you find a treatment that lets you heal."

He exhaled, his breath hot against her skin. "You make it sound simple."

She smiled in spite of herself. "Your cases are never simple, House," she said then drew back and looked up at him. "This one least of all. But you can do this, I firmly believe that."

"You've always have faith in me," he observed. "Even when you shouldn't have."

"You have frustrated the hell out of me at times, a few times you've frightened me, but I've never doubted what you can do when you put your brilliant mind to it," she said softly. "Your case is not terminal but it is the most important you've ever worked on. You will find the answers you need. Just remember that it's not a sprint. It's a marathon. Pace yourself. _And be gentle with yourself_."

"Gentleness isn't exactly my forte," he said in reply, brow knitting.

"How wrong you are," she murmured, her heart fluttering at the memory of the times he'd been gentle with her and the rare times she'd see him be gentle with others.

The way he was looking at her, she could see that he was thinking of the former.

"I love you, Cuddy," he said then.

She pressed her hand over his heart and whispered the contents of hers.

"I love you."


	69. Chapter 69

**Part 69**

He was bundled up in his black, wool pea coat against the cold night air.

Normally, Mayfield _residents_ weren't allowed outside after dark, but Dr. Nolan had given him special permission, along with a pre-paid cellphone that Cuddy had left for him.

She was in his thoughts, which had become the norm, as he gazed up into the sky. The stars were bright and clear, light pollution much less here than in Princeton. It made the universe somehow seem _deeper_.

Stargazing had been one of the few things he'd enjoyed as a kid without his father's interference. On those nights he'd been made to sleep in the yard, he'd been less fearful when the skies were clear and he could make out the constellations. He had made it a game, a distraction. He had learned them and the mythology behind them and would retell himself the stories until sunrise. It had been better than focusing on his reality.

He was facing that now — the memories of then and the baggage they'd left him with as an adult. He didn't like that it made him feel weak and defenseless, especially since he was a grown man and no longer the skinny kid who'd _lived_ those things.

Cuddy made him feel better, though. Wilson did, too, in his own way, although House still wasn't happy he'd come today. Selfishly, he'd wanted to have more time talking to her. She grounded him and he'd never really had that before. Stacy had wanted to, but he'd ultimately left her feeling alone in their relationship. Cuddy drew him in. She was stronger and he wanted and needed stronger.

Nolan was stronger, too, and experienced in navigating the things that were wired all wrong in his brain. They'd talked for a short bit after Cuddy and Wilson left. The man had been encouraging and House had tried to listen. He'd told Nolan what Cuddy had said about his being a _whiteboard_ and House smirked at the memory of Nolan's laugh.

"She's an intelligent woman," he'd said after House had then shared with him Cuddy's advice.

House was planning to call her now. He hoped to catch her just as she was getting into bed. It was as close as he could get to sleeping with her. He wanted to hear how her voice was different when she was laying down, and how her breaths softened as she relaxed into the mattress and bedding. He wanted to picture her there and imagine himself laying with her.

He missed her and this afternoon had been a taste that whetted his appetite for more. Flipping open the phone, an antiquated flip design, he noted the time. He should wait a few more minutes but he found he couldn't now that he was looking at the keypad.

He dialed and waited, anticipation filling his gut with that weird weightless sensation. It only increased at the initial sound of her voice. Then he heated, starting with the tips of his ears beneath the maroon beanie atop his head.

_Interesting._

"So, I was thinking," he began, his voice visible on the air. He heard her sigh softly in contentment as he continued, "That maybe you could use a bedtime story."

Her smile was visible in his mind. _"Am I naked in this story?"_

"Do you want to be?"

_"Naked, yes. In reality, with you here," _she said. _"I think it's best I stay clothed in the story, for both our sakes."_

"Yeah," he agreed. They were frustrated enough. He changed tack. "Have you ever been stargazing?"

_"Not since I was a girl."_

_I should take you,_ he thought then moved from his perch, sitting atop the back, to stretch out the bench and continue staring at the heavens. They could pack blankets, a thermos, and bundle up. He'd snuggle with her and tell her the stories that had kept him company as a boy.

_I'm turning into Wilson_, he mused but couldn't be bothered to be upset about it.

_"What are you doing?"_ she asked.

"Stargazing," he said.

_"You're outside in this cold?"_ She sounded worried.

"I'm wearing my coat," he assured her, adding, "and it's my best shot at actual privacy."

He heard her moving now, muffled sounds that he thought he identified as covers shifting.

"Getting comfy?" he asked, curious.

_"Hang on a sec."_

He waited and a few moments later, he heard her let out a breath that sounded like she was resettling. But not the bed. The sound was wrong. _Wood creaking?_

_"Okay, I can see the stars from my bedroom window,"_ she said. _"I'm not sure what I'm looking at, though."_

He mentally calculated the direction her window faced and shifted so he was looking roughly at the same sky as she was. And there was a damned tree blocking his view.

"Crap," he said under his breath but she heard it.

_"What?"_

"Tree," he grumped. "Nature sucks."

She laughed softly. _"Do we have to be looking at the same stars to enjoy it?"_

She had a point but he was still irritated. "I'm a romantic."

_"You are," _she agreed and he scoffed. He wasn't the slightest bit inclined to romantic notions, except—

_"You are, in your own way,"_ she pressed her point.

He surrendered, not wanting to pursue the subject for fear she'd start offering up evidence that would make him sound _even more_ like Wilson.

"Okay, so what do you see?" he asked, turning back the other way so he could see the sky.

_"Stars,"_ she snarked and this time the sound he emitted was amused.

"That's it, we're going on a proper stargazing excursion," he declared.

She snorted then asked, her voice decidedly curious, "What do you see?"

"Pegasus," he replied.

_"You can see a winged horse in a bunch of bright dots?"_ she sounded almost incredulous.

"I'm a romantic," he countered and she snorted softly. He tilted his head and frowned a little. "Although it is sort of upside down," he observed then asked. "Do you know the myth about the winged steed?"

He heard a _shushing_ sound and knew she'd shaken her head. _"No,"_ she said softly.

He was inordinately excited that she hadn't because it meant he could tell her.

"Wanna hear?" he asked.

_"Tell me."_

He did and smirked when she interjected with _"That's so screwed up"_ at the description of the mythical horse's siring and foaling.

"That's tame compared to some of these tales," he said and considered getting her a book until he realized that if he didn't, he could have the privilege of sharing them with her himself.

_Crap, I really am turning into Wilson._

But as annoying a thought as that was, House couldn't help but like how it seemed to bring him closer to her. He ceased feeling the cold as he spoke into the receiver, continuing the tale then talking about the symbolism of the mythological beast.

_"Thank you for the bedtime story,"_ she said when he finished, her tone the intimate one he loved hearing when they were alone in the dark.

"You're welcome," he murmured, shutting his eyes to imagine her sitting in that wicker-backed chair by the window, probably bundled in a blanket — or that Michigan sweatshirt he kept at her place. He wished he was there to warm her up. _Or vice versa_, he thought when he started to feel the cold again. The first late-autumn snow would probably fall soon.

"I should go in," he said even though breaking the spell of the moment was the last thing he wanted to do.

_"Yes, go get warm," _she said.

Sitting up slowly then getting to his feet, he kept the phone to his ear, snatched up his cane and walked toward the building. As he closed the distance, he heard her moving back to the bed. He heard the click of the lamp when she shut it off and recognized the sounds she made as she settled beneath the covers.

"Will you visit this weekend?" he asked as he approached the back entrance nearest the security desk. They knew to watch for his return.

_"Yes, I'll be there Saturday and stay overnight." _

He heard her happiness. The news made him happy as well. He was grateful for her visits and the time Nolan approved for him to spend with her away from the hospital. He needed it but knew that it might not always be possible. She was heading into holiday fund-raising season, when people were in a more giving mood. He didn't know if he'd be done here by then, a thought that didn't depress him as much as he expected. He wasn't cured of anything, and there was nothing easy about what he was doing, but his emotional meltdown earlier in the day had been … _cathartic_. He didn't feel wound quite so tight.

"I'll see you then," he told her as he tapped on the slim window in the door. The guard looked up from the magazine he was reading then got to his feet. "Get some sleep," he said softly.

"You, too, House," she whispered.

He sighed then closed up the phone and waited for the slow-moving guard.

"Hurry up, Festus," he grumped with a grimace, "It's freezing out here."


	70. Chapter 70

**Part 70**

"Do you think he wanted you to follow in his footsteps and be a Marine?"

House sat back in the chair and tried to appear _less tense_ as he kept a white-knuckled grip on his cane. Nolan always seemed to know just the question to ask to put him on edge and he wasn't keen on repeating yesterday's eruption.

_Be gentle with yourself._

Cuddy had told him that yesterday, stressing that he was capable of gentleness, even toward himself. He didn't know how the hell he was supposed to do that but he started by taking a deep breath. It didn't help much, especially when he resumed thinking about Nolan's question.

He couldn't remember his father ever directly saying he expected House to don the uniform, but he had tried to groom him. At every opportunity, physical and mental discipline had been touted as the greatest asset of a Marine and John House had tried to instill both into him. It had stuck enough for House to excel academically and at several sports, but he had rebelled against it in just about every other aspect in his life.

His father had ignored or ridiculed his actual interests — music, pop culture, history, and science — never offering an ounce of encouragement. He'd hated that House hadn't wanted to play football and sneered when he'd announced he was going to pursue a career in medicine. He had expressed nothing but contempt and disappointment, no matter what House did.

Meeting Nolan's gaze, he finally responded. "I think he wanted me to be anything other than what I was."

"And what were you?" Nolan asked.

There was only one answer to that question. "Not his son."

Nolan's brow knitted. "He wasn't your father?"

"Not biologically," House said then told Nolan what he'd shared with Wilson the day of his father's funeral. How he'd deduced his false paternity. How John House had treated him that subsequent summer. And how House confirmed his theory after the man's death.

Nolan looked at him for several long moments. "Do you think he knew before you confronted him?"

"Probably," House said, looking away, past Nolan's shoulder.

He imagined his punishment would have been more severe than the silent treatment if his father had thought it a lie. The lack of interaction would have been enjoyable if it hadn't been for the relentless tension. He'd spent the entire summer waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it hadn't and the tension hadn't ended. It had been with him for years, was with him even now.

House's insides twisted. _That same, near-suffocating anticipation of something bad happening. _

"What are you thinking right now?"

The question was asked almost gently but it startled House.

His eyes shot to Nolan. His breath caught and his heart lurched and raced in his chest. He shook his head, not liking the answer his brain supplied. How could he admit aloud that he, a world-renowned diagnostician, had failed to diagnose his own condition, or worse yet, he had been so in denial that he'd refused to acknowledge the truth.

"Just say it, Greg. There's no wrong answer," Nolan beseeched.

House continued to shake his head as he assessed his current condition and as far back as he could remember: Hyperarousal, avoidance, insomnia, irritability, high-risk behaviors, self-harm, brokenness, shame… _addiction._

His brain raced. The symptoms had been there and he should not have been able to deny them. It went against reason and logic, his medical knowledge and experience. That he'd missed it infuriated and confused him.

Before he realized it, he was reaching for his pocket and the mobile phone he'd used the night before.

Nolan didn't try to stop him. He just watched quietly as House opened the phone and hit redial.

He waited for her to answer, hoping she wasn't stuck in some damned meeting or tied up with a clinic patient. He swallowed convulsively to stave off the lump of emotion forming in his throat. He wasn't feeling the same sense of panic he had the day before, but he needed an anchor and Nolan wasn't it. Not for this. He could help, but he couldn't…

_"House?"_

She said his name before he could speak and he was relieved to hear it. Just the sound of her voice…

"Can you come early? Tonight?" He wasn't sure if she could. She always had work to do — too much, in his opinion_._

_"Are you all right?"_ she asked, her worry audible.

"Yeah." It was a lie, or least half of one and he knew there was no way she believed otherwise.

_"I'll be late,"_ she said and he felt a weight lift. Not everything, but enough he could take a bit deeper breath.

He looked at Nolan to gauge if the man objected to House's plan. He saw no sign of opposition so pressed ahead.

"Same place?" he asked.

_"Yes, I'll call now."_

He bowed his head, further relieved. He wanted to see her, talk to her before he said anything more to Nolan. She knew him better and would maybe help him understand.

"I'll meet you there," he told her then disconnected the call. He glanced up at Nolan. "I need some air."

Nolan gave him an understanding look and House appreciated the trust it implied.

House thanked him then pushed himself up from the chair. His leg protested but he ignored it and made for the door, intending to take a short walk. He paused there, hand on the doorknob, and made a decision. He looked over at Nolan.

"You up for a walk?"

He wasn't sure why he'd asked other than he thought he owed the man something for not pressing him to talk further.

Nolan gave a little nod. "Yes."

Their stroll was taken in companionable silence and House relaxed some. He tried not to think about his unpleasant epiphany about himself and apparent intellectual impairment. It wasn't easy. He ended up counting his steps, then mentally calculated the minutes remaining until Cuddy's workday ended, and how long it would take her to pack, and then the drive.

It seemed an interminably long wait.

After a while, Nolan excused himself to care for other patients, leaving him to his own devices. He sat on the bench a while, until the ache in his leg demanded he seek warmth. He took his pain medication and tried playing the piano. He tried reading but ended up in the therapy baths. The hot water felt good but his mind wouldn't be quieted.

Frustration set in and dogged him until the early evening hours, when he packed up a change of clothes and made his way downstairs. He was surprised to find Nolan there and offering him a ride.

"Thought I'd save you the cab fare," the man said, his smile absent but his manner not overly serious.

House accepted the offer without question, more than ready to see Cuddy.

She was already at the hotel when Nolan pulled into the lot. She was at her car, unloading a pair of bags. House noted one of them was his, making his packing unnecessary. He should have known she'd bring him things; she always did. He hadn't been thinking and that bothered him.

Nolan parked several spaces over from her vehicle. House climbed out and slung his bag over his shoulder. She looked up at the movement and flashed him a little smile, even as she gauged his mood.

Relief was what he felt, winning out over tension. The effect she had on him…

He met her on the sidewalk, where she set his bag and released her rolling suitcase to stand on its own. She didn't say anything, she just looked at him, a moment before easing her arms around him.

He shut his eyes and buried his face in her neck.

Neither of them said a word until she gave a direction.

"Let's go inside."


	71. Chapter 71

**Part 71**

He waited for her to speak.

Still dressed from work, she sat in one of the room's chairs. She had pulled it close so that she was directly in front of him as he sat on the foot of the bed. Her knees were aligned just to the inside of his, her hands clasped together as she leaned toward him.

He positioning was almost a mirror of hers, as if they were huddling. And he supposed they were. He had just told her what happened in the mid-morning session with Nolan. The revelations and how he'd missed—

"If anyone missed anything, it's me," she said softly, interrupting his thoughts. He started to shake his head, but she gently slipped her hands around his and the action silenced him. "_I_ should have seen it, House. That you didn't…"

Her voice trailed off but he could see her looking for words. He held his tongue and waited, his insides still knotted. He wasn't sure what he needed to hear but was hopeful she would.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was soft but confident — and he'd always liked hearing her talk that way, whether to him or a patient.

"You know that our minds have a way of protecting us from things we're not ready to see or hear, both in the moment and in memory. It is a base survival mechanism that will always trump intellect. Not even extensive medical knowledge and experience can exempt us from that." She paused, then softer still, "You weren't ready, House, and that's not a weakness, or shortcoming, or an indictment of your gifts."

He wanted to believe that. It's what they'd taught during his psychology rotation in med school, but—

"You've saved dozens upon dozens of lives over the years," she continued as if she could see the objections taking form in his brain. Her fingers deftly unclasped his hands then held each in her own. "All of them were successfully diagnosed and treated without your awareness of _your_ diagnosis."

"Physician, heal thyself," he murmured. It was self-pitying and he wasn't even sure why he said it, except that people did, albeit incorrectly because the physician part was metaphorical. And she knew it.

"A _biblical_ proverb," she protested, eyes narrowing but still caring. "One that doesn't apply here because you believe in what you do and act on your belief. Your having post traumatic stress disorder _does not_ hinder you from being a successful intercessor between your patients and death."

He scoffed at the grandiose wording. "You see me through rose-colored glasses."

"No, I'm speaking within the context of the axiom you referenced," she clarified then quickly stamped out what would have been his next observation. "Yes, I'm a Jew and the proverb from the New Testament, but my father made me look it up so I'd understand if someone ever threw it in my face."

She sighed and looked at him so intently.

"You are an _exceptional_ doctor, House," she continued. "You have a gift that transcends medicine. I would trust you with my life. And," she took a breath, "if I had a daughter, I would trust you with hers, PTSD or not."

Her gaze had grown glassy and the sight of her pain stopped him in his tracks. He felt ashamed. He sometimes forgot about her loss, not so long ago.

Easing a hand from hers, he reached up and touched the one tear that had escaped. It was just at her cheekbone.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, but she shook her head, the action causing the wetness to smear.

"_This_ isn't about that," she said softly. Her hand came up to cover his and a hint of a smile emerged on her mouth. "But I love you for it."

He loved her, too, but he still wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve her affection, if he even did. What he did know, though, was that they could give each other what they needed.

He reached for her, hoping to drive away the lingering melancholy he saw in her and forget the rest of it for a while.

His hands found her waist and guided her to stand.

She was close.

_So close. _

Close enough for him to kiss her abdomen.

So he did, lips brushing and pressing against the silky fabric of her blouse. She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders while his traveled downward, following the curve of her hips to her thighs, and lower. He adored every line of her, even through the heavy fabric of her skirt. But he needed more of her.

With a heated murmur of her name against her blouse, he slipped his hands beneath the material and touched her bare. She was warm and soft and with her scent in his nostrils, he was in the atrium of his heaven.

He wandered deeper, his palms ascending smoothly along the length of her legs to find the waistband of her panties. Tremors shook her as he drew them down. Her hands left him and a moment later, he felt her skirt loosen. He eased back and assisted her in stepping out of the garments.

Then he watched her open her blouse.

Each concealed, pearly button slipped easily from their holds despite the unsteadiness of her fingers. It was always a perfect thing, watching her reveal herself to him, for him. She was undeniably beautiful and that she was his … the very thought was enough to rend him in two with want of her.

He set his own trembling hands on her waist and watched her slip off her blouse, and then her bra. His eyes found hers and he saw in her the same things he felt. And unshed tears.

She helped him out of his button-down and t-shirt. They worked in tandem to bare his lower half so that they could be skin to skin.

Neither of them said a word.

When her hands returned to his shoulders, he balanced her weight to help her ease astride him. Her knees pressed into the mattress at his hips while her mouth descended upon his.

The ensuing kiss was warm and soft and further solidified her hold on him in the quickening of his heart. In how her mouth melded with his and their breaths mingled.

She made soft sounds and he echoed them. He lay back and she went with him. She melted against him, her nipples scoring his chest. He slipped his arms around her when she looped hers above his head, as if sheltering him.

It was comforting and he longed to give her the same. He suspected he'd neglected her while he'd been at Mayfield, even if she would never say. He owed her for standing by him, letting him be selfish so that he could be with her the way he wanted — that he hoped was deserving of her.

Wanting to be over her, he twisted to lay her across the covers. He waited until she moved up the bed before he went to her. There was a perfection in how her body cradled his when he found his way between her thighs. There was even more to be found inside her and he did not wait to rediscover it.

She arched under him as he pushed slow, smooth, and deep. Then she was taking his face in her hands and drawing him back into a kiss that was delicate and loving.

Lips grazed lips, pressed and caressed, then retreated only to do so again. He could barely breathe but when he did, the air was filled with her.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Easing his mouth from hers, he cupped the back of her thigh with his right hand and guided her leg around him. His left found her jaw and cradled it as gently as he knew how. He toughed his thumb to her cheekbone, as he had minutes earlier and found it still damp, but not from tears … _not only tears_.

He held her gaze and rolled his hips against hers in a slow, deliberate thrust. Her breath caught and her eyes flared with pleasure and emotion. He caressed her face gently and repeated the movement, again and again, pausing for moments between to relish her response, and prolong it.

Her gasps became tremulous. Her hands flexed against his back, fingers splayed. Her leg curled around his, even as she let it fall outward, inviting him deeper.

He accepted, placing his hand on her inner thigh and urging her wider still so he could increase the pressure between their hips. He found just the right angle and she bit her lip and pressed her head back into the pillow.

Her eyes fell shut but he couldn't take his eyes off her. Not even when his desire began to assert itself.

He continued to cradle her jaw gently, his thumb still just touching that spot on her cheekbone. When she moved, he followed, keeping the contact. It felt important.

When she moaned his name, he kissed her then hovered close, still watching, still breathing her in and listening…

"Come in me."

The breathless whisper hit him in the heart like a sledgehammer and she repeated it as her body began to reach its end.

It was a litany. Said again and again and again until it was all he heard.

Until he gave her what she wanted and took her with him.


	72. Chapter 72

**Part 72**

The hot water was like a smooth, shimmering mask as it flowed over his face.

Most of it cascaded off his chin and jaw when he titled his head further back, but the rest flowed along the line of his neck and spread across his chest, down his body.

She watched, somewhat mesmerized, her heart quieted.

They didn't often take showers together — his sense of balance was just too often precarious — but he'd insisted tonight and she hadn't wanted to press the issue since he'd seemed relatively content after their talk and lovemaking.

Earlier, he'd been frustrated and confused, and his professional confidence as low as she'd ever seen it. It was understandable that the delayed diagnosis of his condition would stir those things, given his specialty. But he didn't have anything to worry about when it came to his diagnostics instincts and she was prepared to remind him of that whenever he doubted, however was necessary.

For now, though she concentrated on the man and not the doctor.

He had been so purposeful with her earlier, after she'd exposed the grief she rarely indulged. She hadn't been actively hiding it, but it had been easy to push aside in light of work and his situation. But she'd needed him to hear her and understand exactly how much confidence she had in him. How much she trusted him. Because she did — and not just with her body.

Just a little over two months ago, she would have been terrified at the thought of trusting him with her heart, but she did. She loved him intensely and was head-over-heels _in love_ with him.

As she watched him, he tilted his head forward out of the water. His right hand still holding to the assistive rail on the back wall of the shower, his left released her waist, which he'd been using as his counterbalance, and wiped away the excess water from his face.

She reached up and helped him, her touch infinitely tender because her heart dictated it. He bowed his head toward her and opened his eyes. She smiled up at him and told him something that had been on the tip of her tongue since they'd come together.

"Sex with you is beautiful."

His response was to ease his arm around her and draw her closer, then kiss her.

Her heart fluttered when one kiss became two then three. And then he kissed her brow. He didn't say a word, not then, or after he carefully got out of the tub. It was only after she'd dried her hair, returned to the main room, and asked him if he'd eaten.

"No," he said then looked up from where he sat on the side of the bed, naked and stretching his neck. "And I know you haven't."

She flashed him a little smile then went to her own bag, intending to get a pair of clean panties before she thought better of it.

_There's no way he's one and done tonight._

He had been too tense earlier and some of that tension had lingered despite everything — or it had returned. The curse of his overactive mind? Or maybe strain from over-compensating for his uncertain footing in the shower?

Either way, he would probably choose to combat it through physical intimacy and she wouldn't object. She had missed him terribly and she hadn't realized exactly how much until he'd first touched her to initiate their lovemaking.

"Hungry for anything in particular?" she asked as she picked up his t-shirt from the floor and slipped it on. Her wardrobe choices hadn't gone unnoticed. His gaze flickered over her.

"No really," he said then rose and hobbled to the overnight bag she'd brought him. He rifled through it while she located the yellow pages and glanced at the bedside clock. There wouldn't be many places open in a small town with already limited dining options.

A pizza parlor with delivery service was the most likely. Or maybe a Chinese place. Or maybe a twenty-four diner. The latter would be her choice for the chance at a salad but she couldn't remember if the one they'd ate at before had extended hours. She did remember the name, though, and flipped through the restaurant listings until she found an ad with their hours. She told House that the place was open and reminded him it was only a few blocks away.

"We can go eat or I can pick it up," she said.

Holding a pair of pajama pants and a clean t-shirt, he smirked, the first of those expressions she'd seen of the day.

"In that outfit?" he said, nodding to her

She smiled. "I'll put on pants."

"And a coat, else someone's going to see _exactly_ how cold it is out," he said, nodding toward her chest. "As it is, you could cut glass with those puppies right now."

She liked that he was teasing her but still rolled her eyes.

"I'm starving and I'm sure you are by now, so make a decision," she said, heading over to her bag for appropriate attire to wear out on a cold night.

"If you were Wilson, the question would be moot. But since you're not," he said, tossing the bedclothes onto the bed and turning back to the overnight bag, "I'll ride shotgun."

After they dressed, she drove them the short distance to the eatery. Had it been warmer, they could have walked it, but the wind was the sort that cut through to the bone.

Once inside, in the warm, coffee- and food-scented air, they decided to grab a booth in the front corner of the dining area. A few folks, probably locals, were sitting at the bar and chatting with the waitress. A couple others were scattered about, reading newspapers or books, nursing steaming cups of coffee.

They cast glances at House and Cuddy as they entered but just as quickly went back to whatever it was they were doing.

After placing an order, she watched him survey the room. He glanced at her then down at the glitter-and-white formica tabletop. She doubted it was vintage — a lot of the decor looked like it might be but the rest was vintage-new.

"There was a place like this in Jacksonville, a couple miles outside Camp Lejeune," House said, interrupting her thoughts. He glanced at her nervously before looking away, this time across the room to some point behind her.

"I had my first cup of coffee there," he said after a few moments.

It was an innocuous revelation but she had a feeling he had planned to say something else, especially when he looked at her again. Whatever it was had him anxious. She wanted to put him at ease, so she tried to steer the conversation away from subjects directly related to his father, just in case, while still keeping it personal.

"How old were you?" she smiled.

"Almost fifteen," he answered then added, again nervously, as if somehow he was revealing too much, "I was a late bloomer."

She wished she knew how to reassure him.

"I can't remember when I had my first coffee," she told him. "I may have had wine first. Kosher for Passover," she explained.

That clearly amused him. His eyes regained some brightness and a corner of his mouth twitched up. "And how old were you?"

"Seven or eight. But it wasn't much." She added the latter when he suddenly looked fiendishly delighted to hear how young she had been.

Before he could say anything, though, the waitress brought their coffees. Cuddy watched with amusement as he fixed hers for her, exactly as she usually drank it.

She thanked him when he eased the cup over to her side of the table.

He looked slightly embarrassed but managed a soft "you're welcome."

They talked throughout their meal.

Between bites, she updated him on the Taub-Kutner situation — legal was still reviewing the case to determine what the hospital was obliged to do in the situation — and music when one of the patrons put money in the jukebox in the corner.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen one, except for this place, and it didn't disappoint her when House told her it used CDs.

"First concert?" he suddenly asked when she mentioned an '80s hairband.

She blushed, the question unexpected and the answer embarrassing to admit, especially to him.

"Wham!," she muttered.

His grin was that of the devil himself. "Did you wear _the_ shirt?"

"And the fingerless gloves," she groaned as she buried her face in her hands. "Oh God, I can't believe I admitted that."

He laughed and if she didn't hear the sound so rarely, she would have protested — more. She settled for narrowing her eyes and shaking her head in mock disgust.

"I'm sure yours wasn't embarrassing at all, right?" she said. "The Rolling Stones?"

"Yep, I had class," he countered with a wheedling grin.

She smiled but still called him a jerk. Then she burst out laughing when he proudly announced:

"Of course, I did wear the requisite package-enhancing tight pants…"


	73. Chapter 73

Happy New Year!

Forgive me for neglecting to put acknowledgements when I post. I'm just too excited when I post that I forget!

I'm thankful I've had time to write this last month. The ones previous were so busy that I'm not sure how much slept. I do hope to keep up a reasonable pace for a while but as always, life can have different plans for me. But I'm still here and working on the story; it is always in my thoughts.

* * *

**Part 73**

"Do you still have those _tight_ pants?"

A smile greeted her question, flashed at her over the roof of her car as they opened their respective doors. His blue eyes were alive with mischief.

"You mean you haven't snooped yet?"

Although she had cleared out his drug stash and her things, and stopped to occasionally pick up a few things for their visits, she hadn't _snooped_. But…

Alarm bells went off in her head.

"Have you?" she asked.

"You have a _fun box_ in your bedside table."

_Oh God. _

She refused to have this conversation outside, even if the parking lot was devoid of people. She opened her door wider and slipped inside. She looked over at him after she settled into the driver's seat, seat belt buckled, prepared to ask him why he would feel the need to go through her things, but he spoke first.

"Your restraint is impressive considering your sex drive," he smirked.

"What are you talking about?" she asked as she cranked the engine and turned on the heater.

"You haven't used them in a while."

She hadn't but still…

"I haven't had a reason to, thanks to you," she said then paused. "Wait, how would you know?"

He just smirked and more alarm bells went off.

"What have you done?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"Who said I did anything?" he responded with clearly feigned ignorance.

"No one but you're … _you_."

He looked proud but didn't answer. He just reached for the seatbelt and put it on, then stared out the windshield, clearly waiting for her to drive.

She sighed and put the car into gear and began backing out as she debated whether to be curiously amused or annoyed. She was on the fence. Then he said something that made the decision for her.

"I may or may not have autographed them."

She slammed on the brakes, thankful she had barely let off the pedal. She looked over at him, her jaw cocked to suppress a smile. She so wanted to be mad. If he'd done it a couple months ago, she would have been furious. But God help her, she loved that the silly, possessive, prank-pulling part of him was alive and well — even though he'd rifled through and apparently defaced her _private_ things.

It was just so perfectly _him_ to do something like that and wait for her to find out. And that she hadn't found out told him whatever it was he'd wanted to know but hadn't asked.

Right now, he just looked at her, eyes bright and engaging, practically begging her to respond. She didn't disappoint.

"You are an egregious ass," she said, barely containing the laugh behind it; she'd already lost the war against smiling. "Did you think I was _getting some_ on the side?" she teased.

Oh, he loved that response. She saw it in his eyes.

"From the bed-_side _table," he volleyed. "I needed to check out the competition. I thought graffiti might make them less attractive."

She snorted. "You're an idiot."

"Good thing you like idiots," he said.

"Good thing," she snarked as she resumed backing out of the space. "But for the record, I have nothing to hide from you," she said, wanting to make it clear that despite her amusement, there was no need to snoop through her things.

"Even the fun box?" he asked.

"I wasn't hiding it from you. It's just not the sort of thing you leave on the coffee table," she stated the obvious.

"Can we play with them?"

Her reaction to that question was instant arousal. _And he knew it would be_, she thought, when she glanced to see him looking at her with heated curiosity. She flushed further beneath his gaze, her mind happily providing all-too erotic images for her enjoyment. She forced her gaze back to the road and took a steadying breath. It was insane how quickly he could work her up.

"You're turned on," he now stated the obvious.

"That's why you asked," she countered without looking at him. She didn't dare do that for fear they'd end up off-roading on Main Street. She was pretty sure he was smiling in addition to looking like he wanted to devour her.

Which is practically what he did once they were back to the hotel, undressing her then burying his face between her thighs and making her come, repeatedly, until she was virtually boneless. He'd apparently been a man on a mission because there'd been no indication that he expected reciprocation. He'd just cleaned her up and they'd settled under the covers together.

That had been a bit ago but they were both still awake.

She was looking at the light coming in around the edge of the window, sneaking just past the curtains. It looked blue, a result of the color of the drapes not the product of the common streetlamp outside.

Thoughts of the day flowed through her mind as she stared, memories of the morning, work, the drive to Mayfield, the evening, and supper.

Thinking on the latter, a question surfaced in her mind. Well, more a curiosity, about how at one point, House had seemed anxious about something that he considered saying. It had been for only a few moments but it was on her mind again and she broached the subject carefully.

"What was it earlier?" she asked, her head pillowed on his upper arm. He was laying behind her, on his back.

"What was what?" He sounded confused, like he'd been lost in thought.

"When we were at the diner, you were afraid to say something," she pressed on, even though a part of her brain suggested she reconsider.

He tensed, apparently no longer confused, but didn't say anything, which prompted her to turn over. He was looking up at the ceiling and didn't spare her a glance when she propped up on an elbow and looked at him.

Even in the night shadows, she could see his frown. She laid a hand on his chest and caressed, hoping to comfort him.

"You don't have to tell me, I just … are you okay?"

"Yeah," he answered, his voice surprisingly soft. "It was just a memory."

_Not just_, she thought. "But your impulse was to share it."

He murmured in the darkness, "Yeah."

"If you want to share, I'll listen," she said, sliding her hand up to stroke her fingers along his throat.

He didn't say anything right away and she didn't push. She just continued her touch and watched her fingers trace a path along his collarbone then down along his sternum. It was several minutes before he responded.

"I met a girl there. At Lejeune." It was a soft rasp and it carried the note of a distinct emotion: fondness. "She was a brunette with green eyes, pretty, and liked me for some reason."

Not wanting to disturb him from the moment, she smiled, breathed, "There's a lot to like."

He covered her hand with his and cradled it against his chest.

"I was skinny and _acnified_, not quite a jock or nerd," he said, a bit of a smile emerging then disappearing just as quickly. "I didn't have any friends there yet."

"She was," Cuddy said softly.

He looked at her. "She was more."

"Your first?"

His gaze moved from hers, down to their hands, and that was as much a confirmation as his whispered "Yes."

She was touched he would share _this_ memory with her. Of his first love.

"What was her name?" she asked.

"Elizabeth," he said, his thumb rubbing her palm. "Beth."

He sighed and Cuddy felt as though the weight of the world had suddenly joined them in the small room they occupied in northern New Jersey. His face contorted into something akin to anguish but the emotion surprisingly didn't alter his voice, except to tighten it.

"We only met when he was away."

_He … his father._

"I sometimes snuck out after my mother was asleep and came home before sunrise," he said then stilled his hand. "One night, he was there, back early from some training exercise," he continued, his breaths coming harsher. "He was waiting for me. Someone had seen us together and told him."

His distress at the memory was tangible in the tight grip on her hand. Her heart felt like it was in a vise.

"He had the tub ready."

His fingers flinched around her hand, then tightened again. His other hand found her back and drew her closer. She was certain it was an involuntary response to whatever he was reliving in his mind.

"It had been years since…," he trailed off, emotions roiling off him when he resumed. "It was worse than before, colder, more ice."

He shuddered hard with the confession and her heart sank into the pit of her stomach with the realization of how his father had punished him.

_Oh God._

"It was meant to teach me a lesson about the sin of fornication and bad girls," he said, still keeping his eyes on their hands. "I wasn't big enough or strong enough to get away from him."

A tear slipped from his eye, a slight glimmer giving it away in the dark. She wanted to touch it, to wipe or gently kiss it away, but his hold on her hand was unrelenting. So she returned it in solidarity.

"I was forbidden to see her again," he murmured. "She thought I was a jerk who had just wanted sex."

Cuddy's heart broke, for him and the boy he'd been. Even after decades, the pain poured off him, as if it had happened yesterday. And the sadness…

"But you loved her," she braved, despite fearing it could cause him to withdraw.

He neither agreed or disagreed with her assertion but he did look at her and said something that meant even more.

"I never wanted to hurt her."

She felt a tear slide down her cheek in mirror of his.

"Did you ever tell her?" she asked.

He gaze returned to their joined hands. "We moved a couple months after."

In the wake of those words, the heaviness of emotion seemed to dissipate. His hold on her hand eased, as did the press of his other hand against her back. The lines of his face held but tension faded to grim resignation.

The urge to hold him was strong but she didn't know if he'd let her and she didn't want to lose his confidence. It was a huge thing that he'd told her, both the subject and his openness. She didn't want him to close off when he was just beginning to deal with the hurts of his past.

She desperately wanted to dig up his bastard of a father and give him a piece of her mind, angry enough that she resolved to curse the man to the heavens and back later. But right now, she kept her focus where it was needed, on the man who held her heart.

He suddenly looked at her with a need she recognized, understood, and could meet.

Easing her hand from his, she touched his face as tenderly as she knew how. She was not necessarily surprised to find more tears than she'd seen.

"I love you," she whispered then leaned down and kissed him.

His hand came up, caught her hair, and drew it away from her face. His other hand smoothed over her back then tugged. Easing her mouth from his, she found her way over him, keeping the covers around them both.

He gazed up at her, eyes searching the shadows that she knew hid much of her from view. But he seemed to find what he needed to see.

"I'm cold," he said and sounded _lost_.

She found his mouth again with her own and grazed her lips across his.

"I'm warm," she breathed and kissed him again.


	74. Chapter 74

This is a short one...

* * *

**Part 74**

She was warm and soft and all his.

He could make love to her and there would be no ice bath waiting for him. But he could have a hot one. But only if he wanted it. And he didn't have to take it alone. She could get into the water with him. All he had to do was ask.

There would be no morality lecture. No talk of his unfitness as a soldier's son. There would be no one calling her a whore or other any other vile thing.

He was a man and she was a woman. She wanted him and he wanted her. She loved him and he loved her.

_Sex with you is beautiful. _

She'd said that and he could not argue with the concept, only he found it beautiful because of her. Because of who he was with her.

His father was dead.

He owed the man nothing.

He might just owe her everything.

She was a brunette with blue-gray eyes, beautiful, and she liked him. She was taking him in and out of her body. Her hands caressed him, infusing him with much needed warmth. Her kisses and soft whispers of his name pushed his memories out of focus. She anchored him to the here and the now.

He hoped he did the same for her, whenever she thought of the little girl that should have been hers. He, an atheist, prayed he did.

There was too much hurt between them, but not caused by them.

His hands sliding up over her back, he threaded his fingers into her hair and cradled her into their kiss. He said her name, murmured it against her mouth. He told her he loved her.

He had felt drained but now felt full. He was filling her, his erection deep. She took all of him in on each stroke. Every inch.

She was hot around him. She was wet and smelled of sex.

If _this_ was a sin, he would gladly pay the price of hell.

One hand finding the edge of the covers, he threw them aside and rolled her under him. He planted his palms into the mattress at either side of her head and pushed himself up. He worked his hips against her, watching her as she looked up at him.

Her hands moved over his chest and sides. They found his shoulders and descended along his arms. She reached and touched his erection, her fingers caressing his length between each penetration.

He trembled and his breaths came harsh and fast. The sheer pleasure of sex with her was all consuming. He needed _this_ with her. Maybe more than he needed breath.

He wanted to come in her, to fill her full to overflowing. He wanted her to know how much he desired her and _this_ with her. He had no words to convey the depth of what he felt in that moment.

Language was useless. None of the ones he spoke adequate.

He had only his body. It was broken — like so much of him — but he could show her.

So he did, lowering to seize her mouth with his. He stole her breath, leaving her gasping when he pushed up again. He ignored the burn in his thigh and moved inside her with deliberate intent. He listened to her moans and sharp inhalations, to the soft cries of his name.

He loved when she said it. He loved that she was here and not in Princeton. He loved that all he'd had to do was call her and ask her to come.

He asked her to come now, a different request but the goal ultimately the same.

"Come with me, beautiful," he panted and watched her eyes flare at the endearment.

He never said them. He never had, to anyone. He didn't know why he did now.

But it didn't matter. Because she was coming. And he was coming. And that was all that mattered.

In the wake, he settled down onto the bed beside her, pulled her into his arms, and urged her to go to sleep.

She did and he joined her in slumber without dreams of baths, hot, cold, or otherwise.

There was just rest, dark and quiet and content, and her warm body against his.


	75. Chapter 75

For those wondering, I am receiving notices of your comments, but for some reason they are not showing up on the site. Sounds like a glitch. Hopefully they'll sort it out. In the meantime, thank you for continuing to read and, as always, for taking the time to comment when you are so moved.

P.S. This is another relatively short one.

* * *

**Part 75**

Elbows resting on his knees, House looked up from under his brow at Nolan.

They were nearing the end of the session and House was tired. Every time they met, he fought talking about even the most mundane of things from his past. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk, not entirely, but that remembering hurt. Confronting that hurt also hurt. Talking about it only hurt more.

Hurt upon hurt upon hurt translated to pain. He hated pain.

And yet he'd talked to Cuddy.

He didn't know why he had shared _that_ memory with her, why he had wanted her to know, or if it was important for her to know. He'd just told her and he couldn't square away in his mind the _why_ of it.

Looking for insight, House decided to broach it with Nolan, his whiteboard in this place, but kept the exact nature of the memory to himself.

"I told Cuddy something, from when I was a kid," he said. "I don't know why, or why that memory."

Of course, Nolan knew the _whys_ that hadn't quite coalesced in House's brain. It frustrated him that he was continuing to miss the glaringly obvious.

"Whatever it was, some part of you trusted her to hear it," the psychiatrist said.

"Some part of me?" House frowned.

"Greg, you are highly intelligent. A renowned medical genius with a gift that allows you to find medical order in biological chaos. But there are some things you can't intellectualize, much as you'd like to," Nolan said, his voice even and dark eyes earnest. "The trust you have in Cuddy isn't based on logic. It can't be intellectually diagnosed because it comes from in here," the man said, pointing to his own chest.

House's logical mind supplied a logical deflection to the fanciful notion.

"The heart is an organ. It pumps blood through the body. It had nothing to do with emotions. That is biological order," he said.

Nolan just smiled. "Yes, love and trust originate in the brain, just like reason and logic."

"That makes the heart's role a metaphor, a romanticism," House continued.

"Yes, it does, but it doesn't change the fact that your trust in her is not rooted in higher forms of thought," Nolan countered then asked, "Tell me, did she ask you to tell her or did you want to tell her?"

"I wanted to," House confessed.

"You knew she would listen?"

"She said she would," House responded.

"But before she said it, did you know?" Nolan pressed, digging into the semantics, forcing his mind to break it down bit by bit.

"Yes." It's why he'd felt the impulse to tell her in the first place.

Nolan's gaze bore into him now.

"Why did you stay with her that night, after the adoption fell through?"

That question was unexpected despite knowing she had talked to Nolan about the infant that would have been hers if it hadn't been for the whim of a teen-age girl. He hadn't thought Nolan would bring it up with him but he did have an answer.

"She was in pain," House replied, remembering the anguish he'd seen and felt from her. That she'd told him she didn't want to feel. He'd confronted it again, a few nights ago.

"Yes, and you understand pain. You know what it's like to experience it, undeserved. You know the sheer unfairness of it," Nolan stated with conviction. "She understands those things, too, which is why you trusted her with your memory."

Nolan's expression was one of encouragement as he continued.

"There is the logic and reason for _why you did it_ … common ground," Nolan said, "But you won't find a logical reason for why you _wanted_ to say it because _that_ is a matter of the heart." The psychiatrist smiled and his voice softened, "You love her, Greg."

House was hard pressed to describe what he felt at Nolan's explanation. He knew he loved Cuddy. He didn't know if love or trust had come first for him, or if they had arrived at the same time — was the timing even relevant? But he did know there was no scientific formula for anything to do with the emotion.

"Trust my heart," House said, frowning. He sounded like Wilson again but his humanity had been too long on the shelf for him to wholly trust in words that belonged on inspirational posters or inside fortune cookies.

"It's not a bad thing," the psychiatrist said, as if hearing his thoughts. There was a note of pride in his voice. "Trust that even if you haven't worked out the logic and reason yet for whatever you tell her, that your trust _in her_ is not misplaced. It's okay to let your heart take the wheel."

House was skeptical of that advice. His success on that front had been limited — until recently, in his relationship with Cuddy — but he hadn't made much effort over the years. It had always been easier to trust his intellect than his feelings. Feelings left him open to pain, whether they were in a counseling session or _out there_.

Needing to clear his head, he planted the tip of his cane on the floor and pushed himself up, using the handle. "I think I've had enough head shrinking for the day," he said.

Nolan just sat back in his chair and smiled. House felt the man's gaze on him as he walked to the door.

Once there, House turned back to him. "Tomorrow. Same Bat-Time. Same Bat-Channel?"

Nolan's answer was a chuckle.

"Later, bro," House snarked then made his way down to his room. There, he snatched up his jacket and headed outside.

He wanted to make a phone call.


	76. Chapter 76

**Part 76**

The clinic was busy.

Busier than she'd seen it in weeks, which she chalked up to the change in weather and the arrival of cold and flu season. Still she relished the chance to practice medicine over pushing papers.

Much as she loved making a difference as an administrator, making a difference with individual patients was equally satisfying, sometimes more so. And House would tell her that was crap — medicine should always be more satisfying.

Standing at the nurse's station, she signed off on the chart of her last patient and put it in the rack. She picked up another and opened it to see what was next.

_Fever, stuffy nose, headache. _

Not even close to exotic but she could help them feel better and that was always fulfilling. She took several similar cases after that, along with one wildly frightening, shudder-worthy outbreak of herpes, and one with a pregnant teen mom and her overbearing mother.

The last one had hit a little too close to home, prompting her to leave the rest of the patients to the other staff. Especially after Nurse Jeffries gave her a pitying look. It was easy to understand why House hated that expression.

Head held high, Cuddy went to her office and shut herself inside, thankful the blinds were already drawn.

"Damn it," she said under her breath, her hand pressed against the seam where the doors met. The wood was cool beneath her palm, the sensation centering.

The weekend had left her somewhat exposed emotionally. She and House had indulged their mutual grief, let themselves be intensely vulnerable at times. It had been cathartic but it had also shattered any illusion she might have had that she was over Joy, even partially.

It was still a wound, no longer open and bleeding profusely but easily _reopened_ under the right circumstances.

As she thought about what'd just happened in the clinic, she realized she'd been subconsciously avoiding such situations. She had been able to ignore everyday, passing encounters, or at least absorb them without much impact. But the reality was she'd avoided any prolonged, close-quartered contact. She hadn't visited the children's cancer ward in two months, which she used to do biweekly, and she hadn't allowed herself to be in a room alone with a mother and child since that day.

With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself away from the door. She had too much work to do to indulge in self-pity. Besides, there were plenty of people who had it worse. She at least had a career that paid well and was passionate about, a nice home, and a man who loved her and whom she loved.

Turning, she went to her desk, sat, and looked for the most logical place to start. It wasn't easy because new things had been left for her while she was in the clinic.

_The nurses must have let themselves in, again,_ she thought then frowned when she considered they might have already alerted Wilson to what'd happened in the clinic. Which meant he'd be down at some point in the next hour to check on her.

She appreciated their concern and his, but having her every emotion monitored was a pain in the ass — even when the biggest pain in her ass had done it on a regular basis.

_Although I don't mind that part so much any more._

Of course, he went about it differently now. Instead of indulging his concern in perverse or grandiose displays of curiosity, he kissed her and held her and made love to her. Which pretty much summed up their weekend activities. They'd met each other's needs, honestly and earnestly.

She wished she was going home to him tonight. She would like nothing more than to take a long, hot bath then fall asleep with him beneath the thick blankets on her bed.

She had no idea what they were going to do when he came back to Princeton.

Much as they didn't want anyone to know about them, they would not be able to put it off for forever. She wanted desperately for them to have the freedom they had when they were in Mayfield. There, they could eat out, shop, and go back to the hotel and not worry about anyone seeing them. No one there knew them or their roles in the hospital. They were just a couple and she liked that.

_But it won't be like that here_, she thought.

In the long run, she didn't know if it would be a good thing or a bad one, which was enough for her to know it would be a while yet before they let anyone know. Even the man knocking on her office door.

Or so she thought until she asked the visitor to come in and saw a delivery man and not Wilson.

"Lisa Cuddy?" he asked, stepping just barely inside the partially open door.

"Yes," she said and watched the man open the door wider and enter. He was carrying a rectangular box, brown and nondescript except for a label bearing her name. The man produced a clipboard as he approached and she noted his uniform — _a private delivery service_.

"You'll need to sign," he said.

More than a little curious, she took the board, signed the paper, then handed it back to him. She thanked him as he departed, wishing her a nice day.

Soon as her office door was closed again, she grabbed her letter opener and cut the packing tape, then lifted the flaps.

She smiled when she saw what was inside.


	77. Chapter 77

**Part 77**

"Thank you for the flowers."

She imagined he was looking down shyly, probably a bit embarrassed by what the traditionally romantic gesture said about him. She would kiss him if they were in the same room but since he wasn't, she settled her gaze on the flowers instead. They were in a vase on her coffee table. The note card lay beside it, bearing three words: _I trust you_.

She wasn't sure what spawned that particular message but she knew it was a poignant one if he felt the need to send it.

"Did they get in under the radar?" he asked.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, she reached out to touch the velvety petals of a rose.

"Yes, no one suspected, and I left late," she said then released the flower at sat back into the corner of the couch. She pulled the throw blanket from the back, down across her lap to ward off the evening chill.

"They're going to show up on your credit card," he said and she smiled.

"I figured as much," she said, having found the card missing from her wallet upon coming home. She could be angry, but she wasn't. He couldn't very well use Wilson's.

"Just don't lose it," she cautioned.

"It's locked up with security," he assured her then went quiet. After a few moments, he murmured softly into the receiver, "I miss you, Cuddy."

"I miss you," she confessed and did not try to hide her melancholy.

"You okay?"

She could tell from the pitch of his voice that he'd tucked his chin down to his chest when he asked.

"Yes, just a long day," she said then found herself mentioning the teen-age mother. "I'm okay," she reassured him. "I just hadn't realized I how much I was avoiding things."

"I'm the king of avoidance," he said and she knew he meant it to make her smile. It did, a little.

"Does that make me the queen?" she asked, picking at a piece of lint on the blanket.

"It makes Wilson the court jester," he answered and her smile widened.

"Where are you?" she asked, wanting to make sure he wasn't freezing his ass off outside. Snow was in forecast for the entire state.

"Therapy bath," he said.

Worried, she asked him if he was in pain.

"It's manageable," he said then deflected ably, "Wanna know what I'm wearing?"

She laughed softly and took the bait. "You're either wearing nothing or about to be wearing nothing. Although you had better wear something in a communal bath."

"Oh, you're good," he teased and she shut her eyes and imagined the look of delight on his face. "Or am I getting predictable?"

"When it comes to the subject of nudity, you've been predictable, for years," she snarked then sighed.

Talking with him… She was coming realize exactly how much she had come to find comfort in these moments. Even when he was being silly, there was an intimacy to it. Over the phone, it was as if he were hovering close and speaking words only meant for her ears.

_Romantic concepts to match an equally romantic gesture_, she thought. _Flowers. I would never have thought…_

"Still with me?"

His concern-laden voice stirred her from her thoughts.

"Just woolgathering," she said softly.

He took a breath, murmured on exhale, "I've gathered enough wool the last couple days to knit a sweater or two."

There was a note of _something_ in his voice that made her long to touch him.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." It was said just a heartbeat too quickly for it to be the whole truth of it. Blessedly, he didn't stop there. "I've been asking myself a question that I'm not sure there's an answer to, at least none that helps."

"What's the question?"

"Why did he do it?" he said after a couple moments of hesitation. "Was I that bad of a kid? Or did he just hate me because I'm the product of my mom's cheating on him?"

"You're not his biological son?" She hated to ask the question but that revelation was news to her, and she wanted to make sure she'd understood him correctly.

Surprisingly, he answered and didn't lash out or disconnect. His voice was soft when he said, "He was my dad, but not my father."

Sadly, she wasn't sure how to respond and really, really wished she were with him. Her hands ached with the need for contact with him. He would let her do that. Words weren't adequate for addressing some situations with him. And she worried that this situation might be one of them.

"Would knowing why help?" she asked then.

"I don't know" was his answer and in her mind's eye, she could see his expression. Like it had been that night, when she'd asked him why he felt the need to negate everything.

"Have you ever talked to your mother?"

That question was met with stone silence. She heard him breathing through the connection. His respiration was harsher than moments before telling her she'd hit on a subject he probably wasn't ready to confront. And she knew it was when he finally responded.

"She watched it happen."


	78. Chapter 78

**Part 78**

The sins of the mother.

_My mother._

For all his confusion about his father, his mother's silent complicity was even more confounding. She loved him. He knew she did but she'd allowed him to suffer — possibly for _her_ choice that brought him into the world.

He told Nolan.

"Whatever your parents' reasons, you were a child, Greg," the psychiatrist said. "Nothing you did could ever justify their actions, or inactions. Not even the things you could have done would justify the things that happened to you."

Nolan's voice had taken on that soothing tone that House sometimes found comforting, sometimes patronizing. Today, it seemed to hit somewhere in between.

"It happens to a lot of kids," House said, trying to distance himself.

"Yes, it does," Nolan agreed somberly. "But it also happened to you."

"Some have it far worse," he tried again to make it less personal.

Nolan held his gaze, his dark eyes indicating he knew what House was trying to do.

"But that doesn't make what happened to you any less grievous," Nolan said. "And it doesn't negate your right to ask these questions, or your right to an answer, or your right to be outraged," the man continued. "It was wrong, Greg. _They_ were wrong. It's okay to hold them accountable."

House knew they were. He _knew_. But knowing and believing were two different things. Knowing, believing, and what he felt were three different things.

What they had done to him and what he did to himself and others… They were two sides of the same coin. If he didn't deserve punishment then, surely he deserved it now.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Nolan pressed gently and House answered, sharing his observation of moments ago.

Nolan shook his head. "Those are two separate things. What happened to you as a boy wasn't your fault and it wasn't pay-it-forward punishment for the things you would do in the future," the psychiatrist said. "You alone are responsible for the things you've done as an adult … to a point."

Confused, House scowled and shook his head but before he could vocally protest the caveat, Nolan resumed speaking.

"The abuse had a hand in making you who you are and for better or worse, that experience has dictated your behavior as an adult. You are aware of that in some ways but from the way you're looking at me now, I don't think you realize others yet. It's the things done under that umbrella of ignorance that you're not wholly accountable for."

"That's not an excuse," House said because he knew right from wrong. He'd made wrong choices knowing they were wrong. He paid the price when he did. Sometimes not the full one because of the compassion of people like Cuddy and Wilson and their penchant for protecting him, but he did pay.

"No, it's not," Nolan quickly agreed. "But true, full accountability comes with the awareness of why you do the things you do. From the conscious acknowledgement of the link between what happened to you then, the role it has played in making you who you are now, and how it still affects how you treat yourself and others."

Leaning forward in his chair, Nolan locked eyes with him. House found it both hypnotic and unnerving when he did that but he tried to focus on what Nolan was trying to convey.

"Greg, you have been taught to believe certain things about yourself that are not true. You have been taught to punish yourself for those things, no parent needed. You have punished yourself through self harm, drugs, alcohol, and probably other things you haven't told me about," Nolan said. "Ironically, you've used some of these same things to protect yourself. You take drugs and drink to disconnect and isolate yourself. You push others away by hurting them before they can hurt you."

House scoffed, "You make it sound like I'm a wounded animal."

"In some ways, you are," Nolan said, "Admitting that is not easy because it reveals your intrinsic emotional and psychological vulnerability as a human being."

His frown deepening, House retreated to an old argument that never seemed to be resolved.

"What good does it do to admit it? It doesn't change anything. You're still left with the crap."

"Because it's where you start to rebuild," Nolan answered and to his credit he didn't make it sound as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"As a physician, you know that to treat a wound, you must first see there is a wound and acknowledge its existence. Then you assess it and determine what you need to do to heal it. That's the point of full accountability, Greg, where you become solely responsibility for your actions, or inactions. You either choose to let the wound fester or heal it," the doctor said. "You either choose to continue to live the way you have been or get the help you need so you can move beyond what happened to you. It's when you choose to build new and better ways to live your life."

"I want that," House said and found it surprisingly easy to get the words out. Probably because it was the one thing he was certain of. He didn't want to be miserable. He wanted the happiness he'd found with Cuddy and he wanted it to continue.

"Which is why you're here," Nolan said, nodding. "You've known that since you made the choice. You needed more than the average rehab experience. That wouldn't address what you need most."

"No," House admitted. "I want things to be different. I want to change."

Nolan smiled.

"Then let's working on old healing wounds and start a new foundation."

House nodded and felt something deep inside him ease.

Relief.

He felt relief.


	79. Chapter 79

**Part 79**

The ebony and ivory keys dipped and rose. Hammers struck. Wire strings vibrated within wood. Brass pedals held the notes.

All at his behest.

Eyes closed, he drew concordant notes from the instrument, forming them into something with form. A composition.

He hadn't written in longer than he could remember. But he was writing now, fingers guided by something less manifest than thought. The heart, Nolan would say, but that wasn't accurate, even in the most romantic sense.

Music was math, albeit math that even the most mathematically illiterate person would find beautiful.

Music was spiritual, which was a hypocritical assessment for a man who didn't believe in spirituality — certainly not the forever kind.

Music was a vessel, a place for him to put the feelings he didn't know how to feel and thoughts he didn't know how to think.

It had been a long two weeks.

Group sessions with people both interesting and boring. Session upon session with Nolan, revealing details upon details, making discovery upon discovery. Anger, confusion, pain. Satisfaction, certainty, relief. Betrayal and trust. He'd felt it all and they had come to define his existence within the walls of the asylum, real and metaphorical.

He was tired and ready to see the woman he loved.

A fund-raiser had kept her away weekend before last. Onset of a cold had caused her to cut short her visit this last one.

He ached for her. To touch her and kiss her. To have the sheer pleasure of holding her.

Those feelings found their way into the notes that filtered throughout the common room. He was aware of the others present even as he tuned out their existence in favor of the tune taking shape in his gray matter.

If emotions could hold form, it would be within music. A single note. A blend of them. A melody. A harmony. A discordant clashing. Tangibly intangible. Heard therefore felt, not thought.

Finding an _off_ key on the old upright caused him to frown and made him miss his own instrument, perfectly tuned, with the fuller resonance provided by the baby grand body. The black lacquer finish served only as a protectant and window dressing. And it looked sexy.

So did the woman whose hand came to rest gently on his shoulder. He'd caught a whiff of her perfume just moments before contact, enough for him to not startle at the first brushing of her fingers against the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

Smiling, he brought his composition to a close and looked up to see her smiling down at him.

"You ready?"

"Yep," he said then turned, lifting his right leg with his hands to swing it over and down on the other side of the bench. He put his coat on then snapped up his cane from beside the instrument. Once on his feet, he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at her.

She was still smiling and holding out her hand. He took it and led them to the door. He nodded at Nolan as they passed the dispensary. The man smiled in return. It was the same smile he'd been wearing the last week whenever he saw House.

It had grown irritating to see but House couldn't deny that it had been earned. He was not an easy patient. Every breakthrough had been hard won and there was still more to do. But he was better, or getting there. There was no real chart to check his progress. He could only go by what he felt and he felt good, happy.

He was also ready to kiss the woman at his side, which did after he tossed his bag into the trunk of her car and shut the lid.

She hummed as his arms came around her and his mouth found hers. Her hands slid around his neck and she pressed her body to his. He relished the closeness, the contact, the affection, and taste of her mouth.

He wanted to do other things now. But not here.

Easing his mouth from hers, he _saw_ the embodiment of joy. In her, not sound.

His heart was clearly at the wheel but he really didn't care at the moment. Thinking was, as usual, overrated when she was standing in front of him, and definitely when she was asking a question he'd waited twenty-four hours to hear:

"My place or yours?"


	80. Chapter 80

**Part 80**

House was standing in her kitchen, watching snow flurries falling outside the window.

The choice of her place had been logical when they'd thought about Wilson. He didn't know House was coming home and lights at his place would tip his friend off. Plus it would give them time to themselves.

The drive from Mayfield had been easy and enjoyable. They'd listened to music and chatted about nothing things. They'd stopped a couple times so he could stretch his leg, and he'd fallen asleep at least once as they neared Princeton. The rest of the time had been spent watching the scenery pass and holding hands.

It didn't really surprise her that awkwardness made an appearance once they were at her place. She believed it wasn't due to where he was so much as where he wasn't. She could only imagine how strange it felt, after two months, to be somewhere other than the asylum or a hotel room, surrounded by strangers and with little privacy or personal items.

Here, everything was familiar, or at least most of it. She had repainted the room that would have been Joy's last week, deciding it was a step she needed to take in order to move on. She still didn't know what she was going to do with the space but she had at least started the process.

She supposed her decision was subconsciously motivated by his own choice to pursue something better for himself. He had called her every few nights over the last couple weeks. He had rarely gone into the specifics of his talks with Nolan or revealed more memories, but he'd sounded less confused and frustrated.

She had hated the circumstances of the last two weekends that had prevented her from spending the time she wanted with him. The fundraiser had been unavoidable but he'd known it was coming. Getting sick had been unexpected and definitely unwelcome. But he was home now, in her home, where she could touch him and kiss him and be with him the way she'd thought about for weeks. She knew he wanted it, too.

Easing up beside him, she curled her hand around his.

"For all the inconvenience of it, I love snow," she said softly.

He let out a sound of what seemed to be agreement and gently squeezed her fingers. "We should start a fire," he suggested.

"You want the honors?" she asked, looking up at him. "I'll put on an early supper."

"Okay," he said, his gaze finding hers.

Her heart skipped a beat when he leaned toward her. She shut her eyes the moment their lips touched and hummed low when he proceeded to kiss her slow and soft. A fluttering, weightless warmth filled her but there was no clear source of origin, as if every part of her had stirred and ignited at the same time. It was an intoxicating sensation that she wanted to prolong and let evolve, but he didn't linger.

She was left swaying and breathless when he eased away without a word and went to the living room. His departure didn't worry her, per se, but it was unusual for him to leave her clothed after that kind of kiss.

She briefly thought of following him to ask him if he was okay or if something was wrong, but decided to just give him space. He didn't want or need her hovering — especially not after leaving an environment where hovering had been a constant thing — so she set about preparing them something to eat.

It wasn't until after they'd dined that he shed light on what he was feeling.

He followed her to the kitchen as she took their dirty dishes to the sink. He leaned back against the counter next to her while she washed and rinsed them.

"When do you expect me back to work?"

She looked up and met his expectant gaze. She hadn't even thought about that. Her main focus had been on getting him home and settled, not work. In the past, that might not have been the case, which explained the question and probably his caginess earlier.

"I hadn't thought about it, to be honest," she said then looked away just long enough to set the dishes in the drainer. "But even if I had, my answer would be the same as it is now: When you're ready."

She watched him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing as if…

"Did you think I'd push?" she asked as she cleaned her hands.

He shook his head. "The board—"

"They haven't said anything and I'll handle it if they do," she cut in and reached for a clean cloth. She dried her hands. "And for the record, your boss didn't expect your leave to include only your time in Mayfield. And neither did your lover."

She moved to stand in front of him after tossing the cloth aside. She met his gaze

"You've made some major adjustments. I want you to take the time you need to get reoriented, no matter how long it takes," she said. "Your job will be there when you're ready."

He set his hands on her waist and a little smirk emerged.

"I'm a work in progress," he said.

She mirrored his smile and hummed. "Aren't we all?"

He answered by drawing her closer, until her chest was against his. She took a thready breath and watched him as his eyes lingered over every feature of her face. When they returned to meet hers, his expression was gentle.

"Thank you."

Though uttered softly, the words were laden with sincerity. She was touched and happy to hear them. She was happier, though, that he had reason to say them.

"I'm proud of you," she told him as she slipped her arms beneath his and around him. "And I'm very much in love with you," she breathed.

His gaze flickered then he bowed and kissed her. It was a simple touching of lips that he extended, then deepened as he pulled her closer still, flush against him. She pressed her hands against his back, holding him as tightly as he was holding her.

Love. Desire. Need.

She felt them all in the lush caress of his mouth to hers. Her sex grew heavy and her nipples tightened almost painfully. There was an aching emptiness in her body where he was made to be.

Sex. God, she wanted it with him. Always. She craved it. She needed it. He knew it.

His hold on her eased and his hands moved down her body, past her hips to her thighs. She moved simultaneously in anticipation, her arms drifting up to encircle his shoulders. He did not falter when he lifted her, nor when he pushed away from the counter. She locked her legs around his waist as he continued to lay claim to her mouth with his own.

She threaded her fingers in his hair and moaned softly when he began to walk. She pulled her mouth from his and buried her face in his neck. She trailed slow, suckling kisses from beneath his ear to the ribbed collar of his tee.

He hobbled slowly toward her room without any expression of discomfort. His arms were locked as tightly around her as she was holding onto him. She shivered in his embrace when he pressed his head against hers then briefly nuzzled and breathed warm kisses into her hair.

Sensual and tender. Lovemaking. That's what this encounter was going to be.

At the side of her bed, he lowered her to her feet then possessed her mouth again. Lush, lingering kisses, hot and breathless. Her toes curled and she arched against him even though she was still standing.

Clothing fell away from their bodies at the behest of reverent hands, his and hers. She touched him with all the love she possessed and felt for him. She kissed him with the same affection, wishing she could kiss him forever.

It was a crazy notion, but she wished it was possible.

Reaching between them, she took hold of his erection and stroked him, hand over hand. He shuddered and released her mouth. His hands found her breasts as he pressed his brow to hers.

"I've missed you," he breathed between them on unsteady breaths.

"Me, too," she told him then moaned softly when he slipped a hand down to cup her sex.

His fingers explored her deftly. "Cuddy," he moaned at finding her very ready for him.

"Now," she whispered and he nodded before again lifting her, one arm at her back, the other beneath her knees. He laid her on the bed while her hands stroked his neck and shoulder.

She opened her thighs in welcome and he slid inside her without preamble. He paused then and looked down at her, his body visibly trembling and his eyes filled with the same things she felt.

But there was more … a difference.

He wasn't lost, or in pain, or mired in a haze of drugs.

He was completely _present _with her, certain and aware of himself, and of her.

The realization stirred her heart in new ways. She reached up for him, folding a hand behind his head. She caressed him a moment then drew him down.

She kissed him and he kissed her back.

He told her he loved her and then he made love to her.

Slow and gentle, with beautiful, unexpected grace, until she came apart under him with a soft cry of his name.

He quickly followed.


	81. Chapter 81

**Part 81**

"You're different."

She was on her stomach beside him, head laying on her folded arms. He lay on his back, one arm akimbo, head resting in his hand. His other rested on his stomach.

He looked over at her, the illumination of his features changing as he turned into that cast from her bedside lamp. He didn't look worried, but curious. He would have been instantly worried in the past, which substantiated her statement.

"How so?" he asked.

She smiled a lazy smile.

"You're more … _you_. The you that you hide."

"Protect," he gently corrected. "Or so Nolan says."

She agreed with that assessment. "I like the _you_ that you hide."

He smirked. "Say that three times fast."

She gave a soft laugh then pushed herself up and toward him. Head hovering over his, mouths close, she looked into his eyes and smiled, "I have better uses for my tongue."

"Yeah," he agreed and accepted the kiss she gave him, leisurely, slowly deepening then tapering.

They parted with a tandem sigh.

"Better, definitely better," he said, eyes finding hers again.

She smiled again, felt completely content.

"You've been missed here," she said softly. "This bed is very empty without you in it."

Apparently taking her words as a challenge, he suddenly began moving toward her, while still on this back. She got out of his way by moving over him, then with him, until he was spread eagle across the mattress.

Her throaty laugh filled the air between them. He was grinning to beat all.

"Are you sure you missed _this_ me?" he asked.

"What can I say," she said as she lowered, folding her arms across his chest and resting her chin on her forearms, "I'm a sucker for genius diagnosticians with a silly streak."

"You're a _suck_-er all right," he teased, eyes glinting naughtily.

_Oh yes_, she thought. _I've definitely missed _this_ him._

"Is that a request?" she asked.

He smirked. "If you're up for it."

"Question is, are you?" she said then pressed her hips against his. He was getting there.

His hands caressed her ass, squeezing her cheeks and holding her to him while he pushed his hips upwards. "I don't think Little Greg will need much encouragement."

"I think I can lend a hand … and mouth," she said and he eased his grip on her.

Taking that as permission, she shifted, swaying up to kiss him before descending along his body. She breathed a warm trail down over his chest to his burgeoning erection, grazing kisses and her tongue here and there. She had committed to bringing him to full attention when her doorbell rang.

House groaned when she dropped her head to his groin with a groan.

"I'm going to kill whoever that is," he growled. "Or at least neuter them."

She lifted her head. "You're assuming it's a man? What if it's a woman?"

"Depends on the woman," he smirked despite being clearly frustrated at the interruption.

She nipped at his hipbone in retaliation.

"Ow," he said then protested her leaving the bed when the bell rang again. "Ignore it, they'll go away."

"I left the lights on in the living room and there's a fire going. It's pretty clear I'm home," she said, knowing he couldn't argue with the logic, even if he was going to bitch and moan about being interrupted.

"Get rid of them quick," he grouched as she sought out her clothes.

She shot him a smile. "You're cute when you're grumpy."

"Since when?" he shot back as she quickly yanked on her yoga pants and oversize sweater. It would conceal the fact she wasn't wearing a bra.

"Don't worry," she told him as she fiddled with her hair, pulling it up quickly in hopes she didn't look too _ravished_. "I have no intention of taking my time with whoever it is. I have a sexy man in my bed who wants me for my forty-something body. My priorities are straight."

"What if it's your mother?"

"God, don't even say that," she groused, frowning at him as she headed toward the door.

"How about Wilson?" he asked as she stepped out into the hall.

"I'll deal with it," she said, but paused before leaving, "Shut up and no one will know you're back here."

He brought his thumb and forefinger up and drew them across the line of his mouth, as if zipping his lips. But not before looking down toward her groin and asking, "How about _in_ there?"

She rolled her eyes and headed down the hall with a smile.

"Jackass."


	82. Chapter 82

**Part 82**

House quietly made his way around the bedroom, picking up his clothes and putting them on. Except for his shoes and socks. Socks were dangerous. Shoes were loud.

_Cuddy is hot._

He smiled to himself, thinking about her answering the door without undergarments. He wondered if she'd been in the same state of undress underneath on those times he'd knocked on her door in the night. And that musing sent all the blood to Little Greg, now confined.

He looked down at himself then whispered to the maverick appendage, "Idiot."

Easing over to the doorway, he listened. He'd lay odds the visitor was Wilson, considering his lover's limited social life. If so, there was a chance she'd be nervous enough to make their interloper suspicious. Either that or she'd be simply unable to hide the truth any more.

But boy was he surprised. The guest was definitely Wilson but hearing her talk, the tone of her voice, her word choice…

She was a better liar than he'd ever given her credit for. Or maybe she just couldn't lie to him, at least not for long. Or, more accurately, she was a world-class talent at prevarication.

Wilson was trying to get her to have supper with him. "I thought you could use some company."

House heard the rustle of plastic. Takeout. Chinese from the smell of it. The man didn't just dispense fortune-cookie wisdom, he was in danger of becoming one.

"I was actually about to turn in early for a change," she said.

House could practically hear Wilson's caring bubble burst. Then he got his second wind.

"It's only seven," their friend chimed, the rustle of plastic accompanying the too-cheerful response.

_He's been dumped. _

Cuddy's delayed response told him that she'd picked up on it. _And here comes the guilt._

They were both insanely predictable in some things.

Still, House waited to see what Cuddy would do. If she could ignore Wilson's underlying distress, it would nothing short of a miracle. Even with House waiting for her.

"Are you okay?" he heard her ask and could have predicted that question. She was programmed to care, down to the last molecule of her body.

Wilson didn't give her the answer to the question she was really asking, which House also could have predicted. It was a guy thing as much as a Wilson thing. He didn't want to blare his heartbreak all over the place. Especially not to a woman over a woman he wasn't courting to be the next Mrs. Wilson.

"We're just enjoying ourselves," Wilson had said of his casual squeeze on his last visit to Mayfield and House had believed him.

But Cuddy … she wasn't going to let him twist in the wind. House didn't blame her because he owed his being alive and in her life to the empathic part of her. But it didn't stop him from being frustrated when she invited Wilson in and told him to set things up in the dining room.

"Crap," he murmured and hobbled his way toward the bathroom. Little Greg was not happy about the development but at least he could pee now.

He waited for her to arrive before he took care of nature's call. A flushing toilet while she was in the other room or walking down the hall would tip their hand. And they were still playing the cards close to the vest, as it were.

"I'm sorry," she said as soon as she shut the door behind her. She had his cane in hand. "This was in the kitchen. I got it before he could see it."

She leaned it against the bathroom counter and then herself beside it. She put her face in her hands while he peed.

_You know you're comfortable in a relationship when…_

"Why did I let him in?" she sighed.

"Because you're a much nicer person than I am," he answered, keeping his voice low and soft.

She sighed yet again. "I'm not even hungry."

"I am," he smirked over at her. She smiled back, amused but also frustrated.

"I'll see what I can do," she said then apologized again, "I'm really sorry. This is _not_ how I expected tonight to go."

"We could tell him," House suggested but not seriously. He gave Little Greg a shake then zipped up as he teased, "If you want kittens, that is."

"No, it's not time yet," she said, shaking her head and he agreed.

"Any ideas on how to get him out of here quickly?" she asked and he saw guilt arise at even mentioning it. "God, I'm a terrible person."

"How could you be? You don't have any ideas, while I have several already," he said, flushing then moving over to the sink to wash his hands. She eased over to let him, but leaned her head against his shoulder when he was close.

"What are your ideas?"

He knew his first suggestion would net a look that would communicate something between _amused tolerance_ and _how dare you even suggest that_.

"He have any _really_ terminal patients?"

She tilted her head back and looked up at him as he righted himself. Her expression was closer to the latter.

"He's an oncologist. It's an always-likely possibility," he defended.

"I see you're still an ass," she chided.

"A practical ass. Which isn't a new development," he chided in return. "But I also love you and want to do better. If I didn't, I would have already made the call to have him paged."

Her hand touched his forearm, then slid down to catch his fingers.

"I'm not disappointed in you," she said.

"I didn't think you were," he replied. Although he might have _before_. "But you know that some things may never change."

She smiled a little then timidly confessed, "I'm not sure I want that outrageous, crass, devious streak in you to go away."

He liked hearing her say that. Much as he wanted to get better, he wasn't sure he'd ever stop wanting to play games with her, or Wilson, or his team. They kept him from being bored. They let him interact with them without exposing too much of himself. Time would tell and Nolan would help him find the balance. But she…

"You would miss the games," he said.

"I would." She squeezed his fingers then began moving away from him.

He didn't let he go, though. He tightened his hold and drew her back to him. He kissed her before she could speak. It was tender and loving, not meant to incite desire but to comfort.

When he released her, she looked up at him through dark lashes, her blue-gray eyes now smoky-hued with a ghost of sadness.

"I just wanted it to be us tonight, here," she said. "I want it to be just us for as long as we can manage, until we're ready."

He did, too.

"You've been lonely," he noted, seeing all the things he'd felt during the last months, in those times he was left idle.

"Yes," she said with an audible measure of her anguish.

Hearing it tore at his heart. It was a feeling he both despised and relished. He could do without the pain, but it testified to his connection with her, which he wanted above all else. The discomfort he would endure because he adored her.

"I'll think of something," he told her and she started to shake her head. "No terminal patients will be involved," he assured her, then added to further appease her, "And nothing illegal."

She nodded, with just the barest hint of a smile.

"I'll try from my end, too," she said then began to move away again.

He let her go this time and started thinking.


	83. Chapter 83

**Part 83**

"It's safe to come out now."

Stepping out into the hallway, cane in hand, he saw her coming around the corner, out of the living room. His heart lifted at the sight of her.

"Not bad," she said with a smirk.

"Move over Scorsese," he boasted.

He had just successfully directed her through a fake phone call from her mother. He'd told her what to do, including what gestures and sounds to make, and what to say and when to say it. It had been perfect because Wilson had taken the bait and excused himself when she told it was going to take a while.

"What about me?" she asked.

He held out his left hand, flat, and made a little side-to-side, rocking gesture. She stopped where she was and planted a hand on her hip while cocking her jaw.

"Really?"

He gave a half-shrug as he closed the distance to her. "Well, you did talk about me," he said. "It was a regular girl's night in here. I'm surprised you didn't paint each other's nails."

Her smile waned a bit and she defended herself. "It wasn't that bad," she said. "He worries about you and he knows Nolan consults with me. He also knows you don't tell him everything. I just wanted to reassure him as honestly as I could."

He knew what she'd been doing, and he knew it wasn't easy for her to keep secrets from Wilson. It bothered House less because he always held something back from Wilson and waited for just the perfect moment to spring it. But this was different. They were keeping something substantial from their mutual friend. No matter when or how they told him, Wilson was going to be shocked.

_If it were biologically possible, there would be kittens_, House mused.

Reaching his lover, he gazed down at her. He hadn't meant to make her defensive. "I'd give you an Emmy," he smirked.

She looked at him but a moment before slowly raising her arms and wrapping them around his neck. She leaned her head against his chest, turning it to the side and pressing her ear against him.

That did things to him. She felt so delicate as he eased his left arm around her. He shut his eyes and leaned his head atop hers.

He had missed her even though she'd been under the same roof, just a couple rooms away. He had wanted her to himself, to be the sole focus of her attention. It was selfish, possibly childish, but he needed what they'd found together. He needed her like he'd never needed anyone else.

Not his mother. Not Stacy. Not Wilson. Not Nolan. Not any of the myriad of his short-lived conquests. And definitely not his father.

Cuddy was his port in the storm. She had been for years, whether either of them had realized it or not. Whether they'd wanted to admit it or not.

Holding her close, just standing in the hall of her home, he was more content than he could ever remember being. In his mind, there was quiet. Just quiet. No racing thoughts. No desperate need to head off boredom. No misery. No pain, anywhere. No fear…

_No fear. None._

The realization arrived not in a jolt but in a languid wave, nudging him deeper into the quiet. He held her as he _descended_, breathing her in, listening and saying nothing. The only movement he made was to wrap his other arm around her, his cane still in hand. She relaxed further into him in response. Her trust and being able to trust her only made staying in the moment easier.

How long they stood together like that, he didn't know, but it was long enough for his leg to begin to protest. He reluctantly eased his hold on her then and lowered his cane. He found his balance easy enough but his change in position prompted her to shift, too.

She leaned back enough to meet his gaze and curled her hands around his shoulders.

"You know what I think we should do?" she asked softly.

"What?" he breathed, having the distinct impression he was about to be seduced.

She smoothed a hand across his shoulder to his neck, confirming his deduction. He watched her as she watched her fingers skim along his throat, down to his chest.

"I think we should eat the rest of Wilson's food," she said, a smile flirting with her mouth.

"Okay."

"Then," she breathed, looking up at him, "I think we should take a long, hot bath."

"Okay."

Her hand rose to his whiskered cheek, her thumb brushed across the stubble. "Then," she said softly, "I want to crawl under the covers and sleep, all night, with you."

He'd had enough of strange and uncomfortable beds. "Okay."

Her gaze darkened.

"Then, in the morning," she whispered, "I want you to wake me up," her gaze dropped to his mouth, "with your tongue."

He was seduced, completely. From the transformation of her voice from soft and breathy to thick, raspy, honeyed sensuality to her ephemeral and enticing touch. She knew exactly what to do to gain his compliance. Not that he would have objected to her plan. It was a good one.

"Count me in," he said softly and was drawn down toward her, her fingers having found their way to the back of his head.

She let out a soft breath when their mouths touched, lips just barely parted. She kissed his bottom lip and he her top. Then she eased away and took hold of his hand.

"Let's eat," she said softly.

He followed her to the kitchen.


	84. Chapter 84

**Part 84**

The snow had resumed, falling heavy in the night, leaving the world outside her home blanketed in pure white — and the power out.

Which is why House had woken her not with his tongue as she'd requested, but with a recommendation that they move to the living room where he would light a fire in the fireplace. The room was cold so naturally she protested leaving the warmth of the bed, but he'd declared it _cliche day_ saying they could _do it_ by the fire.

Greg House and a cliche. Even sleepy, she hadn't been able to say no to that, so she'd helped him strip the bed of the blankets and take them to the living room.

Now she was cocooned in them, warmth rebuilding while she lay on her back and watched him stoke the fire to a blaze. Her bedclothes, a camisole and sleep shorts, was skimpy for the temperature but she noted he was a bit better attired in a tee and pajama bottoms.

He looked _rumpled_. His hair, which he'd let grow out in his last weeks at Mayfield, was wild, sticking out in all directions. It was a familiar sight, of course, but it still made her smile.

She'd frequently given him crap over the years, especially early on, about his less than professional grooming. More often than not, he came to work looking like he just rolled out of bed or never heard of the concept of ironing. But she did like the messy look on him. It lent an air of rugged sensuality to him when combined with his scruff and the lean lines of his face. Of course _that_ made her consider screwing him silly just because of his appearance.

_He isn't the only one who can objectify._

"You look delicious," she told him, just her head peeking out from the covers.

He shot her an amused look before setting aside the iron poker and making his way under the blankets with her.

"Raincheck on the tongue?" he asked.

"Yes," she agreed with a hiss when his cold feet bumped hers. They were like ice, making his idea of moving to within reach of the hearth's warmth a great one.

Sharing a pillow, they snuggled close, bodies aligning and entwining, her back to the fire. She sighed and tucked her head into the crook of his neck. His whiskers prickled at her temple. It was a pleasant sensation, as was the feel of his arms around her. She felt him take a slow, deep breath, a prelude to sleep.

She supposed she could give him crap for not acting on his suggested cliche, but she had missed this with him, too. Just sleeping. Very much.

Taking a slow, deep breath of her own, she shut her eyes and let sleep come for her, too.

When she woke later, she was alone, but she could tell the heat was back on. The air was infinitely warmer. The heat at her back was more soothing, though. It seeped through the blankets and into her flesh, creating a distinct desire to remain where she was despite being hungry and the smell of coffee and breakfast cooking filling the air.

She was glad he'd kept the fire going and ultimately decide stay within her swaddle. She lay thinking instead, about the man who was making himself at home in her kitchen. She thought about the changes in him, or rather his emergence from the shadows of his life.

He was still who he'd always been, a licentious smart ass with a stubborn streak and affinity for wordplay — _and graffiti-er of sex toys_. But the man behind all that was finally stepping out into view voluntarily and not as a result of a crack in his defenses. That man had been desperately protecting himself in lieu of those who had not protected the boy he'd once been.

She had no doubt he would always stand sentry in that capacity. It wasn't something that would go away overnight, and might not ever. It was too ingrained, a part of who he was at his most basic level. But he was learning to know when it was safe to lower those defenses. To know when he was safe.

Much as she'd like to believe, he hadn't always been that with her. Looking back, knowing what she knew now, she couldn't really blame him for having hesitated with her. And even Wilson. Though they'd always had his best interests at heart, they'd often had it all wrong. They hadn't possessed the information they needed to understand him fully.

She was gaining that knowledge now. It wasn't flowing out of her lover like a raging river — _more like a trickling stream_ — but she was thankful for what he had shared, and she hoped he would continue. But only if it helped him. Much as she wanted to know everything, she wouldn't push him. He needed control of what he said, when and how much. She had to learn to trust him to know best what he needed and give him the chance to express it. And she was going to do _her best_ to not assume that she was more qualified to judge that; it seemed that assumption had only ever caused him pain.

"Hungry?"

The question made her smile and she looked to see him entering the living room with a bowl and coffee mug; both were steaming.

"Yes," she said but didn't move, at least not right away, _really_ liking where she was. But her stomach was insistent and he smirked when she began to extract herself from the blankets. Refusing to abandon them entirely, though, she made a nest of them before accepting the breakfast he'd brought her.

"You look like Big Bird. Minus the yellow feathers," he teased.

"Ha. Ha," she snarked then thanked him.

He just smiled and her eyes tracked him as he hobbled cane-less back toward the kitchen.

Since he'd detoxed, she noticed his pain appeared to have become significantly less that it had been before. She also noticed that he hadn't complained when he hurt; she'd had to ask to confirm and find out how bad.

He hadn't abandoned use of his cane, of course, but like now, when he wasn't expecting to spend a lengthy amount of time on his feet or to move around a lot, he kept it close but didn't rely on it. It was his faithful companion, however, when he was tired or hurting beyond what his medication could manage. She had learned, the whiter his knuckles on the handle, the worse the pain.

There was no sign of pain now, she observed when he came back from the kitchen.

She sipped her coffee while he set his own breakfast on the hearth then watched curiously when he again limped out of the room again. When he returned, he had his cane but wasn't using it, at least not for its intended purpose.

She eyed him as he eased down onto the floor with her, just a few feet away. Then she smiled when he reached out and hooked the cane's curved handle around one of the coffee table's legs.

_Clever_, she mused, as he used the assistive device to drag the table over to where he could reach it. It was almost as if he'd done it before and she thought it was possible, which made her wonder how often and how many ways he'd employed the cane for more than its usual function.

Once he had the table situated between them, he set the walking stick aside then relocated his meal from the hearth. She set her own breakfast on the tabletop and thanked him again for cooking.

"You're welcome," he said then dug into his eggs and bacon like he hadn't eaten in days.

She enjoyed her own oatmeal, pleased he hadn't brought her the heavier fare. She would eat it every now and then, but her stomach was accustomed to lighter meals. A bowl of steel cut oats sweetened with honey and topped with blueberries was perfect for her to start the day.

Speaking of which…

"What time is it?" she asked, figuring he knew.

"Around 11," he said, around a bite of buttered toast.

She glanced toward the front window. It was a stupid thing to do, considering the entire world of white outside made it was impossible to tell the time beyond dawn, dusk, and night. But looking did provide some useful information — it was still snowing.

"You may have to work from home tomorrow," her companion said, prompting her eyes to seek him out. He was eyeing his plate and rounding up another bite of egg with his fork.

"How much?"

"Six and counting. No sign of plows yet."

She sighed. She really shouldn't to miss work. She always thought it looked bad if she didn't make it in while many of the staff had little or no choice but to find a way to be there.

"Relax, Cuddy, I'm not going to ask you to stay," he said.

He didn't sound frustrated or resigned, but she still looked at him and shook her head.

"It's not that," she protested.

"No, it's a pre-emptive guilt brought on by a utopian work ethic," he said, setting his fork aside and picking up his napkin. "You put in more hours than anyone else at the hospital and yet some part of you believes it's not enough. It's why you can't keep an assistant. _They_ can't keep up with you, much less help you get ahead."

She started to protest but he was right.

"I know," she sighed. "But I don't know how to change it. I've been doing things like this for so long that…"

Her voice trailed off when he raised an eyebrow and she realized what she was saying.

"Think I should talk to Nolan?" she asked.

"I don't know that you need _that_ kind of help, but maybe you should follow your own advice," he said, tossing the napkin aside and holding her gaze. "Be gentle with yourself."

He said it softly, sincerely, and with affection, but something in his eyes…

"You're worried about me?"

"I think," he said, picking up his fork again, "That it would be healthy for both of us to do some things differently than we have been."

"Working less?"

He shrugged then said two words that stunned her into silence.

"Living more."


	85. Chapter 85

**Part 85**

"When you said 'living more', what were you thinking of?"

He scowled at her as he moved up from between her thighs, traces of her desire still glinting in his whiskers. He wiped it away with his t-shirt then tossed it over the side of the bed.

"Were you thinking about that while I down there?" he asked as he stretched out next to her on his side.

Her laugh was throaty on accelerated breaths. She turned onto her side and laid her hand on his chest. "Do you _think_ when I give you a blowjob?"

"No, but women are better multitaskers," he replied. "Science says so."

Hearing a tell-tale note in his voice, she accused. "You don't really think I _think_ when you go down on me."

The twinkle in his eye told her he was definitely far more amused than annoyed, but he wasn't complete unaffected by the fact he hadn't rendered her brain useless for a while.

"I _think_ you jumped on the train of thought too quickly," he grumped. "It should have been derailed. You should be begging me to do naughty things to you right now."

"You want me begging, do you?" she teased sultrily.

He liked that. His scowl vanished. "Would you?" he asked with hopeful anticipation.

"Under the right circumstances," she said, patting his chest. "And you know what those are."

He smirked. "I suspect there are new ones to discover."

"Probably. But that's a two-way street," she said as she gently pinched his nipple. His gaze darkened.

"Yeah," he replied and she could tell it wouldn't take much to have _him_ pleading for her to ride him into oblivion.

But she wasn't ready to go there. The orgasms he'd given her had been very good and she wanted to enjoy the lingering languor. And she really wanted to know what he was proposing.

"How do you want to live more?" she broached the subject again and watched him look away from her, down along her body. A thoughtful frown emerged as he seemed to consider her question. After a few moments, he shook his head.

"I don't know," he said, gaze flickering up to hers. "I don't have anything specific in mind. It's something Nolan said and I just…"

Seeing a thought form in his mind, one he was clearly apprehensive to voice, she prodded gently, "What?"

"When was the last time either of us took a vacation?" he asked.

"You mean a real one, not just a weekend getaway, or a few extra days after a medical conference?"

"Yeah."

She thought about it and the fact she _had_ to think about it was telling in and of itself.

"I honestly don't remember," she said and thought it sounded sad.

He sounded sad, too. "I don't either."

It was her turn to frown. "What about Vancouver Island?"

A couple years ago, she had bought him tickets during a case that she'd ultimately taken over after he'd refused to take it further. He'd been planning a vacation at the time and she'd felt good that they managed to save both mother and baby, eventually with his help. She hadn't been objective and she'd been damned lucky at the outcome — both of which he'd reminded her of — but she'd also been happy to see him actively seeking out something to enjoy. She'd wanted to help since she'd wrecked his plans. She'd felt a little guilty then, over all of it, and he looked a lot guilty now, ashamed even.

His answer was barely audible. "I didn't go."

"Why?" she asked softly, moving her hand up to his cheek. She caressed him gently.

"I don't know," he said, eyes looking for understanding in hers.

She understood him, better now than then, but there were some things about him she'd always been able to predict. She just hadn't always thought out her choices where he was concerned or consciously considered her approach with him. It had been too easy to forget how different he was from most people, how _opposite_.

"Was it me? Did I make too big of a deal of it?" she asked, knowing that would have been enough for him to—

"It wasn't because of you," he all but snapped, clearly frustrated.

It was the first time she'd seen him express it that way in weeks. It didn't frighten her or make her timid, but it did take her a bit by surprise. _Which is just idiotic_, she scolded herself_._

She knew his problems hadn't ended with his stay in Mayfield. His comfort zone had expanded but he still had a lifetime of stuff to sort through and out. She needed to be patient and not project herself into his choices, but she knew it would be easier said than done. She had a lifetime if stuff to sort through, too, and old habits to reconfigure.

_My _perverse_ sense of guilt needs to take a backseat_, she mused then pretty much told him that. It didn't net a smile, but his tone gentled.

"I don't always have answers, Cuddy. I'm wired all wrong," he said, blue eyes still seeking understanding. "I've done things… I'll do things…"

"I know," she said when he paused. "I'm just afraid…"

He looked confused, worried even. She sought to allay both emotions.

"I've done things, too, House," she confessed. "I've hurt you knowingly sometimes but I also know I've hurt you without realizing it, without intending to. In the last few months, I've come to see that I've made a lot of false and unenlightened assumptions over the yeras. I don't want to do that any more but I know that I will."

Vulnerable, that's how he looked. Intensely vulnerable. Making her realize that for all the _accommodating_ they had done over the years for his moodiness and behavior, no one had actually given him what he really needed.

They'd grown ambivalent to him or just placated him. They'd scolded him or told him to get over it. They'd glossed over his misery — both in ignorance and folly. Validation had been fleeting or nonexistent, and she was just as guilty as everyone else for not just stopping and seeing what had been staring them in the face all along: That he wasn't the only one who'd come to define him by his pain and misery, or his genius.

_He is so much more than that. _

"I'm sorry for all of it," she told him softly and felt the sting of tears. "For hurting you in ignorance and apathy. For not seeing—"

In a rush, he reached for her, palm cradling her cheek as he moved forward and captured her mouth with his. Her words died in her throat as he kissed her with unexpected intensity. She tasted grief and absolution. She felt love in the fervent caresses of his lips. And then he stopped and pressed his brow to hers.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. He was trembling and she could feel his erection rising between them.

"Can we…?" he asked on labored breaths.

"Yes," she whispered, wanting the same, to give and receive love through the act of sex. It was beautiful with him, especially in moments like these, the memories of how beautiful prompting her to repeat her answer and more.

"Yes," she whispered then pleaded softly, "Please."


	86. Chapter 86

Apologies to all for my absence - it was not by choice, I assure you. Life and work have consumed the last several months of my life but I have managed to hammer out a couple parts for you. Enjoy!

* * *

**Part 86**

He couldn't claim ignorance or apathy — at least not for everything. But he was sorry for the things he'd done that hurt her, and for the things he would undoubtedly do in the future.

He apologized in the pre-dawn hours, before she rose for work, as he made love to her. He whispered it in her ear as moved over and inside her, and she'd whispered to him in return.

"It's okay."

It wasn't, but he embraced her forgiveness and gave her himself in return, delighting in bringing her pleasure and showing her how much he loved her. The latter was more than he could explain, even to himself.

In the wake, he kissed her softly, for many long moments until she told him she had to get up. He didn't protest but his gaze followed her in the cresting light of the day, watching as she gathered their clothing from the floor then made her way to the bathroom.

He shut his eyes and listened.

He heard the hamper open and the faint sound of their clothing being deposited inside. He heard the water turn on, the patter of water jets steady on the tile for several minutes before rhythmic became random, punctuated with splashes.

She was under the spray.

His mind tapped memories and supplied images of her standing beneath the water, her head tilted back, hair darkening and skin slick. He knew exactly how she'd feel, exactly what sounds she'd make as he touched her.

He didn't rise to join her. He just listened and eventually drifted back off to sleep with those memories foremost in his mind.

He woke again when when she pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I'll see you later," she whispered.

Her smile was fond. Her eyes held love. _For me._

Neither of them said the words, but they weren't necessary to say. They knew.

He slept a while longer after she left but not as long as he would have liked. He ate breakfast, showered, dressed then called a cab to take him to his place. He planned to hide out at hers until later in the week, whenever he decided to tell Wilson he was back in town, but wanted a couple more changes of clothes and one of his guitars. He missed playing.

The ride was boring and slow going. The plows had been running but the snow hadn't stopped. It was light right now but it would probably grow heavier in the late afternoon, making him worry about Cuddy leaving work late. He'd rarely worried about that before.

Once they pulled up at his place and he carefully made his way up the steps and into his building, he decided he would call her and try to convince her to leave work early and bring stuff home if she had to. She would protest but it was safer and he would appeal to the cautious part of her nature.

_And seduce her if I have to_, he mused as he unlocked the door to his place and stepped inside.

It was strange. Almost like entering another world.

The last time he'd been in his home things had been different. He'd been different.

Vicodin had still been in his blood stream. He'd been anxious about the course he was taking but the final kiss with her that morning had affirmed the rightness of his decision. He'd also been in pain and in the dark about a lot of things that were just now coming to light.

Returning to familiar surroundings brought memories that he had anticipated and some he hadn't. They weren't all good, but they weren't all bad either.

Shutting the door behind him, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over the desk chair before heading to his bedroom. There, he hit up the drawers for tees, socks, and underwear, and the closet for shirts and jeans.

It was strange not finding her things amongst or beside his. But he kinda liked that he felt that way about it. It meant she'd become a part of his life and his place in a way that he enjoyed. He was really going to enjoy it when she brought them back.

Locating a small duffle, he set it on the bed and packed the things he'd picked out, taking more care in the act than he would have in the past. For a fleeting moment, he found himself considering digging out a garment bag for his button-down shirts. The thought was so alien to him that he paused and acknowledged another change in himself — one he hadn't been aware of until confronted with it. One he had trouble interpreting. He just knew it wasn't about appearances. It meant something more significant than that.

The thought didn't consume him but it did stay with him as he continued to move about his place. He braved the hall closet and deluge of shoe boxes that actually contained shoes to get the case for his acoustic guitar. He took the instrument itself down from the hooks on the wall. It had some dust on it, as did his other guitars, unlike other surfaces in the place. He didn't like anyone touching them so the cleaning people left them alone. They only dusted the piano surface. He usually took care of the rest and was going to do so now after a month of _neglect_.

He leaned the guitar against the wall, beside his cane, then hobbled to the kitchen. He located the soft cloth he kept just for the task and made his way back over. He picked up the instrument then sat on the piano bench and gently wiped away the dust. He cleaned the two electrics as well then carried the acoustic over to the couch. He sat and gently tuned it, testing the sound, turning the keys until the tension and notes were just right.

He strummed the strings a few times, smiling as he did, relishing the sounds that hummed inside the hollow body. Yeah, he'd missed music.

It was with a twinge of reluctance that he put the guitar into its case. A part of him could sit there all day but he wanted to be elsewhere. Where she would be in a few hours. He tucked the cleaning cloth in beside the instrument and snapped the case closed.

He retrieved his cane and set it atop it. Then he fetched the bag from his room after double-checking the contents, and corralled it with the other things. Looking at all of it, he wondered if he could get the cabbie to help him get the stuff into the car. The steps had been salted but getting himself down them while carrying things upped the chances of injury.

_I'll just pay the guy extra,_ he thought as he made his way to the bathroom.

He emptied his bladder then moved over to wash his hands. As he did, he looked at himself in the mirror and froze. Panic washed over him as he looked at the reflective glass and then the frame that held it.

He backed away, leaving the water running for several minutes until he got a grip on himself and reached to turn it off. He dried his hands by rote and immediately reached for his phone.

He called her as he continued to stare at the mirror.

He'd forgotten…


	87. Chapter 87

**Part 87**

She found him in the bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed.

His call had scared the hell out of her. He'd sounded _distressed _but refused to tell her what was wrong over the phone. He'd simply told her to come to his place.

Worry had dogged her the entire drive over but she knew she would get answers now when he looked up at her. His eyes projected a degree of fear and uncertainty she hadn't seen in him in weeks.

She didn't even have to ask him what's wrong. He rose when she entered and limped to the bathroom using his cane. She followed him and watched him stop in front of the sink. He hooked his cane over the edge of the basin then reached for the mirror.

He glanced at her a moment then took down the mirror revealing…

_Vicodin. _Two bottles.

He set the mirror aside then stepped back and away from the sink. She watched him. His eyes were fixed on the amber bottles, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I forgot," he said then broke his gaze away from the drugs and over to her. He looked afraid, as if he thought she might not believe him.

Addicts lied. It was a known fact but she didn't think he was lying. She knew he wasn't. House felt safe when he lied — or at least he had in the past — and he was feeling anything but safe at the moment. And his insecurity wasn't about the drugs themselves, or even their presence; it was about her potential reaction.

A part of her was hurt that he didn't feel more secure at this point but she understood being afraid even when deep down, you knew you had nothing to be afraid of. He needed reassurance and she was no stranger to that need either. It was easily enough met.

"It would be unrealistic to think you'd remember all of them," she said softly and watched him relax almost immediately. The tension in the room dissipated with his relief, which made her feel better.

Giving him an understanding look, she went over to the sink and took the bottles from the ragged hole in the drywall. When she turned to him again, his eyes were on her, not the containers, sending a clear message to her:

_He doesn't want them. He wants us. _

And it wasn't a choice he was making right now. That had been made in the Adirondacks. It's why he'd gone to Mayfield and why he'd been so fearful when she'd arrived. He was committed to them.

_And so am I._

"I'll dispose of them properly," she said and he nodded and thanked her.

She just smiled at him then took the bottles out to her purse, where it sat on his desk. After tucking them away, she glanced at the duffle on the couch and his guitar beside it, in a case, and couldn't help but smile again.

She'd wondered why he'd left her place but she had a better idea now.

She rejoined him in the bedroom, where he was sitting on the bed once more, and took up a seat beside him. He met her gaze.

"Even when I was good, things were taken from me," he said, quietly revealing the root of why he'd been so afraid. "Mistakes were punished with the same severity as things I'd done on purpose."

She reached for his hand and he accepted her touch, twining their fingers. He looked down at them when he added, "I know you're not him."

"No," she said but understood what he was saying. It was a learned behavior and not going to go away any time soon. She had her own to deal with, too.

He was silent a few moments before looking at her again.

"I give you crap about pre-emptive guilt but I'm way more screwed up, Cuddy," he said, "You anticipate guilt, I anticipate and expect punishment for everything I do, no matter what it is."

"House…," she began but he continued talking.

"But the really screwed up thing is I think a part of me wants it. I've done things in the past to guarantee it." The fear from earlier returned with his confession. "No part of me wants it with you. No part of me confuses you with _him_. But I don't know how to stop expecting it," he said then added, "And I don't want _that_ to cause me to screw this up, even by accident."

"I know," she said softly then released his hand. She did not let her eyes stray from his when she stood and moved between his legs. He took a slow blink when she ran her fingers through his hair.

"I'm not going to punish you," she said, even though she knew she'd done exactly that in the past. She acknowledged it to him, too, aloud, "I know I don't have a good track record on that but I'll do better," she said softly but added silently, _because I know you better._

"You haven't—" he began but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

"I have," she contradicted, confessing, "You're a grown man and I haven't always respected that."

"It's not like you've had cause," he said, looking away from her when he confessed, "I'm a juvenile jackass."

"You can be, and you have been. But not always," she said, drawing his eyes back to her with a touch to his cheek. "But nothing excuses the fact that I overlooked _you_ in all of it."

She held his gaze.

"I love you," she said softly. "And I know we need to talk about all this because I don't want either of us living in fear of losing what we're building. Not over forgotten things, honest mistakes, or even stupid, deliberate choices that hurt one another. We both know that any and all of things are bound to happen at some point."

"But for now," she continued. "The most important thing for you to know is that you haven't done anything wrong. You reached out for help. That warrants encouragement not punishment." She caressed his jaw, smiled gently. "So consider yourself encouraged."

He smirked a little then frowned when her phone rang. She gave him an apologetic look then fished the device out of her jacket pocket and glanced at the screen.

It was the hospital. Of course. She loved her job, but there were times…

"You can't leave that place for ten minutes," he said and she looked at him again.

"Some days," she said then flipped the phone open and took the call.

It was her assistant, whom she'd somehow managed to not run off in the last couple months, which was something of a happy miracle. She was not happy, however, with what the woman was telling her.

The acting head of radiology was insisting on moving up their scheduled meeting so he could go home early because of the weather. She sighed and looked at the man in front of her.

_He would have just left_, she mused. Meeting or not, he would have just packed up his knapsack and headed home and she'd have either never known or scolded him later when she found out. He wouldn't have expected her to rearrange her day, especially not by way of an official meeting, to seek special treatment.

_No, I do that all on my own,_ she thought, then smiled inwardly, _And he would just barge in._

Cuddy sighed and advised her assistant to tell the doctor that she'd be back in a half hour and that she expected him to be there when she arrived or he'd have to wait until the scheduled time.

Surprisingly, her assistant didn't argue with the instruction. The ones in the past had balked but this one, so far, hadn't flinched. She appreciated that more than she could express, but made a mental note to do so in some fashion during the coming week.

As she disconnected the call, she gave House a resigned smile.

"I have to go," she said then asked, "Do you want to wait here and I'll pick you up on the way home?"

He set his hands at her waist and gave a little shake of his head.

"I'll take a cab back," he said, applying just the right amount of pressure to tell her he wanted her closer. She went, taking the single step necessary for her knees to just touch the bedding. His thighs braced her hips.

It was intimate positioning and if she had time, she'd—

"You'll be home early?" he asked as she slipped her arms around his shoulders.

"That's the plan," she said, fingers finding and stroking the back of his neck. He shivered and she felt her body respond in kind, sparking a need for immediate follow-through.

She kissed him in consolation, quickly ducking down to capture his mouth with her own and lingering.

"Let me know when you're home safe?" she whispered when their lips parted.

He nodded.

She smiled then kissed him again before heading back to the hospital.


	88. Chapter 88

**Part 88**

House smiled when he heard the garage door raise. It was a faint sound by the time it reached the living room, but it was loud enough for his ears to pick up, even over the notes he'd been coaxing out of his guitar.

He'd already seen the headlights of her car but that did nothing to dim his happiness at hearing that particular sound. It meant she was home safe, if expectedly late.

He'd managed to talk her into staying at home the day before and then done everything possible to thwart her attempts at working. In his mind, snow days were meant for fun not work. So he'd seduced her repeatedly until she'd eventually given up and spent the day with him doing everything but work.

Naturally, out of guilt and responsibility, she'd declared she'd worked a longer day to make up for it. And he'd been okay with that since the snow had finally stopped.

He'd slept in himself, rising around noon. He'd put together a sandwich then settled in on the couch. He'd watched TV and played his guitar. He'd read, too, medical journals he found in her end table.

Two of them were still on the coffee table, alongside his plate from a snack, and the TV remote. He reached for the latter and turned off the flickering images, casting the room in darkness save for the moon glow brightened by the blanket of snow on the lawn.

Leaning back into the corner of the couch, he cocked his head and listened for the opening of the washroom door. There was a delay, but not an uncharacteristic one … until more seconds ticked by.

When even more passed, he sat up and set aside his guitar, resting it against the front of the couch. He rose then and padded barefoot through the living room to the kitchen.

The door opened at the same time his feet touched tile. He stopped there and waited for her. There was a palpable shift in the air when she rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped. It was dark save for the laundry room light that she'd turned on upon entering. It cast her in partial silhouette but he didn't need to see her any clearer to know something was wrong.

He always knew when something was wrong, even when they were at work, when she tried to hide it behind power suits and an affable smile. It was there in the set of her jaw, in the fine lines at the corner of her eyes, in those blue-gray eyes if you looked deep enough.

He didn't know how to not look deep into her. Even now in shadows, he saw.

"What's happened?" he asked after a lengthy pause.

She shook her head then bowed her it. He heard her let out a breath, weighted and thready.

_Crying? No, fighting tears._

He moved to her slowly. She lifted her head when he neared. He caught the glint of excess wetness in her eyes, and a salty trail of dried ones on her cheek.

_She's been crying already._

There was a time his mind would have supplied plenty of excuses, legitimate and not, to make his exit and avoid stepping onto the unsteady emotional ground she was clearly treading. He probably wouldn't have been very nice about it either, leaving her to deal with it alone.

_She tried with me. She'd almost always tried. Alone was my choice, almost always._

Excuses did not come as he faced her now. Nor did he feel the discomfort that had always prompted them and often squelched his perverse sense of curiosity where her pain was concerned. No, he felt different things now.

The desire to comfort. The desire to know what had happened not to gain advantage as he would anyone else, but to know what had hurt her. Because she was hurting. He recognized it with a newfound clarity thanks to the absence of opiates.

"Cuddy."

He said her name softly and she shook her head again. But then she reached out a hand to him. It held an envelope. He took it and she moved away when he glanced down. He turned his attention back to her as she trudged into the shadows of the hall, toward her bedroom, her hand rising to wipe at her right cheek.

His frown deepened and he turned his attention to the envelope. It clearly held what had upset her. He glanced at the front. The sender…

She'd already opened it. He slipped his fingers inside the perfect slit made by her letter opener and extracted the two sheets of paper inside. He stepped further into the light and read it.

A bill. Probably lost in the paperwork process, from an obstetrician's office that he'd wager wasn't affiliated with the hospital. To prevent anyone from knowing she was trying to adopt. To hide it from him, probably.

He hated himself in that moment, every cruel word he's spoken, every harassment he'd hurled her way that day she lost the child.

He hated himself for not realizing she'd failed to conceive during the IVF. He should have known. He'd given her the damned fertility shots. She'd stopped but he'd given no thought as to why. He couldn't even say he'd assumed she'd been successful. He had no explanation for why beyond the numbness of Vicodin and wounded pride. He'd wanted her to ask him, to choose him as a donor and not a stranger.

Folding up the paper, he tucked it back in the envelope then followed after her. Water was running. She was in the shower.

He snatched up his knapsack from the chair where it sat and tucked the bill inside. She wasn't going to pay another dime for a child she barely had a chance to hold.

Stripping down, he joined her. His eyes fixed on her face and did not wander over the beautiful body he'd lusted after for years, that he loved touching and kissing and exploring. It was her eyes that he wanted to see, the pain and grief, not out of morbid curiosity, but because … he didn't really know.

When she looked at him, he was nearly brought to his knees by her heartbreak. The long-engrained instinct to extract himself from the situation flickered to life but died in the same instant, as she laid a hand on his chest.

He covered it with his own then hobbled the short distance to her, slipping his other arm around her. Neither of them said a word. She just let him hold her, leaning her head against him, ear pressed to his skin.

He wondered if she would want to make love — she did, usually — or if she'd want to just go to bed. He made no suggestion either way. He held his tongue because there really was nothing to say. The situation was what it was. The past could not be changed. Wounds to the psyche and, yes, heart, lingered, a reality he'd come face to face with it in the last few months.

She'd helped him with that and he would help her with this, however she wanted.

When she turned her head and began pressing kisses to his chest, he knew the however. He cradled her to him gently, fingers gently threading into the wet tendrils of her hair.

She didn't cry, not there in the shower, not even when he joined his body to hers, both still damp, atop the soft comforter of her bed.

She kissed him. She caressed him. She accepted each advance and retreat of his erection within her. It was slow, sensual lovemaking that culminated in a sudden rush and breathless cry of his name.

It was the first word to pass her lips since coming home, but it wasn't the last.

Later, ensconced in the warmth of a fire, a glass of wine in hand, she told him about the miscarriages and the emptiness and sense of failure that came with each.

For maybe the first time in his life he fully listened to someone else's pain — the pain of someone he knew. He heard the subtle changes in her voice, at times hollow and flat, tight and wavering at others.

He sat across from her, in the chair nearest the fireplace while she sat cross-legged in front of the hearth. She didn't drink the wine so much as stare at the translucent red liquid when the deepest emotions threatened to escape.

He wondered why she kept them in. She was entitled to express them, even with him. She had before but not now. He wondered if she worried how it would affect him, if her distress would trigger his own and send him running to the familiar arms of Vicodin.

Maybe, at another time, he might have, but drugs were the last thing he wanted as he watched her struggle with feelings that he understood, albeit from his perspective.

Experiences differed but pain was pain in the end, unquantifiable. No one person's could trump another's. But he couldn't help but feel it was otherwise where she was concerned.

He could identify the root of his pain. He could lay the blame at the feet of dead father. She could pin hers on a young girl but she would never do that and life … fate … biology had no feet or altar. It just _was_ so she had to bear it.

Nolan had told him that's why he trusted her with his pain and secrets. And it's why she was trusting him with hers, because he was finally in a place to hear it, really hear it.

So he listened until she fell silent, then listened to her breathe against the backdrop of the hissing fire.

When she finally looked at him, she was smiling. It was just a slight upturning of her lips but it was unmistakable and it seemed an almost amused expression.

_Maybe she thought she'd find me asleep_, he considered but that train of thought ended there because she thanked him then, her voice soft.

He didn't know what to say beyond "you're welcome", so he said that then held his hand out to her.

Her smile got a bit brighter. He watched her set her wine aside and get to her feet. She didn't come to him, though. Instead, she secured the fire.

He rose and waited as she did, then held out his hand again.

She took it this time.

They went to bed.


	89. Chapter 89

**Part 89**

"Have you talked to House?"

The question was whispered, just loud enough for Cuddy to hear. She looked up from the chart in her hand to see Wilson standing next to her. He was fidgeting and glancing around to see if anyone had heard him. She frowned.

"Why?" she asked instead of answering his query.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised over his brown eyes and uttered in near disbelief, "He's in his office."

That wasn't the answer she'd expected.

When she'd left home, House had still been in her bed, just awake enough to kiss her goodbye. He'd said nothing about coming to work today or what day he expected to return. Last night, before they'd fallen asleep after her confessions, he'd vaguely mentioned taking a couple more weeks and she'd been secretly delighted; selfishly, she wanted him to herself a while longer.

"Are you sure?" she asked Wilson, trying to temper her surprise to what the oncologist would expect.

"Sarcastic ass with a pronounced limp and cane?" Wilson replied. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Looking away from Wilson, Cuddy signed off the chart and handed it over to the nurse. She tucked her pen into the pocket of her lab coat and set course for the elevator, Wilson right behind her.

"I spoke to him last week," Wilson said when the doors closed. "He didn't say anything about coming back this week. I'm not sure it's a good thing for him to jump right back into work."

_Wilson. House's mother hen,_ Cuddy mused but pondered a better question than Wilson's first one:

How had House managed to enter the hospital and make it to his office without anyone noticing, especially when his idea of a disguise was to wear a trucker hat and sunglasses? He couldn't very well hide the limp and cane, and a sighting would have spread like wildfire through the hospital grapevine. She'd have heard by now, surely.

"I told him last week that he could come back when he's ready," she said as the lift continued its ascent.

"Do you think he's ready?"

"That's not for me to say," she said even though she believed House was fit to work. The question was whether or not he felt ready to wade back into medicine. She wasn't going to push him either way. And she didn't want Wilson to, which is what she feared was going to happen.

"Have you talked to his psychiatrist?" Wilson asked.

"Last I spoke to Dr. Nolan, he said that House was doing well."

While the truth, Cuddy didn't know whether to be proud or annoyed with herself for becoming so good at skirting a direct conversation with Wilson. She was actually surprised he hadn't caught on by now.

"Well enough to be back around painkillers and whatever other substance he might abuse?"

Cuddy couldn't help it. She shot Wilson an irritated look. The question was unfair — _although he has no way of knowing that_.

"You know the psychological and biological factors of drug addiction as well as I do," she said aloud. "No matter how much time he spends in counseling and rehab, it will always be an issue for him."

"That's why I'm asking," Wilson said in return, eyes searching her face. "I'd have thought you'd be more worried about this. The liability it could represent for the hospital."

She rolled her eyes. "More of a liability than before rehab?"

"No, but—"

"There is no _but_. A release from his psychiatrist is enough to satisfy a licensing board if anyone questions it," she said. "Beyond that, we have to trust House to know when he's ready."

"And you really trust his judgment in that?" Wilson asked but she didn't think he meant it to be confrontational.

"I have no reason not to," she answered then turned and faced Wilson to speak a hard truth borne of their past dishonesty by omission where House was concerned. "And I think it would be of more benefit to him for us to trust him than to discourage him with our fears. He knows them already and he's too intelligent to not share them."

The doors opened and she exited before Wilson could respond, making a beeline for House's office.

The blinds were open and there he was, sitting at his desk, turned to the computer and typing away. The sight of him there after so many months of walking by and seeing the office empty…

Her heart skipped a beat. She loved that they shared medicine.

Taking a deep breath, she glanced to see Wilson standing just out of view. She wasn't sure why he stopped but she made a mental note to be careful in her interaction with House, lest they give anything away.

Straightening her shoulders, she slowly pushed his office door open and entered. "I heard you were back," she said and her professional tone drew his attention and a raised eyebrow.

"Wilson's out in the hall," she explained.

House rolled his eyes and turned from the keyboard to look at her directly. "He's why I'm not _back_," he said and there was a stark honesty in the words, then a note of apology, "I tried to get in and out while he was at lunch."

"Why did you come?" she asked and smirked when he did. He loved a good double entendre.

"Credit cards," he said, reaching under his desk and discretely showing her a small leather wallet before hiding it again. It wasn't his regular wallet.

"Why do you hide them here?" she asked, curious.

"Because he'd never think to look for them here," he replied then smirked, "Besides, I only need his, usually."

"Or mine," she teased, braving a brighter smile since her back was to the door. "I would have gotten them for you," she told him.

"Nope, that would have tipped you off," he said.

"Which you just did," she pointed out.

"That was Wilson," he said. "You'd never have known I was here if it wasn't for Linda Tripp."

With a smile, she eased into the chair across from him. "Speaking of which, how did you get in here without setting off the rumor mill?"

"My nickname was 'Stealthy' in high school," he said then glanced over her shoulder.

"He's watching us," she surmised, her smile tempered by the unwelcome intrusion from afar.

"Yep," he said, his gaze flickering down to the desk then back to hers. His expression was serious, playfulness gone. "I'm not ready for this," he said, "Or him."

"Work will be here when you are ready," she assured him as she had his first night back home. "As for Wilson … you'll need to tell him something."

He nodded. "I know," he said somberly.

She thought to cheer him up. "Just not that you're spending quality time between my thighs."

That netted a devilish gleam but it didn't overtake the seriousness of his expression. He remained mindful of who was on the periphery.

"Will you be late?" he asked.

Her reply was somewhat non-committal and she trusted him to know why. "I plan to leave on time."

He gave a little nod and they drifted into a silence that would have been companionable if it weren't for who was lurking outside the office door. She felt a bit of resentment at that.

"We won't be able to hide it once I'm back," he said, as if discerning her thoughts. The sudden tightening of his mouth told her he shared them.

He took a deep breath then and confessed, "I'm different … we're different. No one will believe my being away, even at a mental institution, is the reason why."

_No, they wouldn't. _

"I know," she said then swallowed the rest of her words when Wilson rapped on the glass. She gave House a long-suffering look instead and he said them for her. "We'll talk later."

"Yes," she said then asked, "Do you know what are you going to tell him so I can back you up?"

He smiled a little. "I'm going to take a page from your book."

"My book?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'll tell him only what he needs to know without going into detail."

"No lies?" she said, knowing they would have flown fast and furious in the past.

"If you tell anyone this, I'll deny it, but I'm kinda digging this honesty thing," he replied and it was total crap.

"Right," she snorted then pushed herself up from the chair. "Let me know, though, so I know what to say."

"Yeah," he nodded then looked away from her when the door opened behind her. She watched him shutter away that alluring openness that he shared with her. She hated to see it but she understood why he had to do it, and not just for Wilson.

"You'll let me know when you're ready?" she said.

His eyes found hers and he nodded once more.

With that answer secured, she headed toward the door. She stopped there and looked back at him, unable to just leave without telling him one more thing for two reasons: one, it was the truth; two, his friend would expect it or something of the sort.

"You look good, House," she said softly then quietly slipped out of his office and sought out her own.


	90. Chapter 90

I feel like all I do is apologize but here I am doing it again. The recent months have been insanely busy, in a good way, but the last month was more of a nightmare. I lost my mother after a nearly month-long stint in the ICU, so I've been busy with all that. I can't guarantee quicker posting right now, but I haven't abandoned the story. I just don't have a lot of time to write at this juncture.

That said...

* * *

**Part 90**

"Thank you."

She said the words after supper, after they'd settled on the floor in front of the fireplace. If the day had played out differently, she probably would have said something else, maybe teased him that they were turning into a cliché by spending evenings in front of the fire. If he hadn't acted in compassion and secretly paid the obstetrician's bill that had unsettled her last night.

She had put it off all day, waiting until late afternoon to call and take care of it only to find out someone else already had … Gregory House, with a credit card.

_It's why he'd been at the hospital and risked Wilson knowing he was back._

He'd carefully hidden his capacity for kindness and compassion for years, from her and everyone else. But he had been letting her see more since she'd asked him to show her both that night in her hallway. The hallway not ten feet from where they now sat. The hallway he rose and disappeared down a few moments later.

She wasn't entirely sure what to make of his response to her expression of gratitude. He had held her gaze a moment then told her he'd be back, leaving her to watch him stand and depart. She hadn't expected an effusive response from him — maybe the standard "you're welcome" at most since he still wasn't entirely comfortable with his softer side being exposed — but neither had the possibility of him leaving the room. Or what happened next.

"Close your eyes."

His voice came from the hallway and carried a note of mischief. She smiled hearing it and shut her eyes, curious whereas not so long ago she would have been suspicious about what he had in store for her.

"Still shut?"

His voice was clearer. He was no longer in the hall.

"Yes."

At her answer, she heard shuffling. She tilted her head and caught more sounds. Some she recognized — like something being set on a wooden surface … _the coffee table_ … lamps being clicked off — some she didn't. He was relatively quiet though as he moved about. She felt rather than heard him return to his spot on the floor beside her. She was pretty sure he laid down rather than sitting, but she didn't really know until he told her to open her eyes.

She did and saw him stretched out beside her … with a laser pointer … aimed upward.

Her gaze followed the red beam and she smiled.

"You are a romantic," she said softly, taking in the constellations projected on the ceiling of her living room. The "sky" looked like it was on fire, thanks to the glow from the hearth. Some of the stars appeared elongated where they descended down the wall.

"Nope. This is Astronomy and Celestial Mythology 101," he said in response to her charge.

She snorted and looked back at him. "I'm pretty sure there's no such thing as Celestial Mythology 101."

He scowled at her. "There is actually, but let's not ruin the mood with academic debate."

"Romantic," she accused once more then stretched out beside him, bringing her head to rest on his shoulder.

"Teach," she said once she settled.

She watched and listened as he used the laser pointer to point out each star that made up whatever constellation he was telling her about, making sure to trace the line between the stars to show her the shape. Some of them she "saw", others she didn't. He told her the myths behind them, too, his voice almost hushed as he talked.

She was lulled into a contented state just listening to him. He could have told her anything at that point, but he stayed on subject and she enjoyed hearing tales she'd only known bits and pieces of over the years. It's not that she hadn't been interested before, just that, well, she'd never taken the time. She had a list of literature classics that she never found time for, too.

When he shut off the pointer after three grand and definitely bizarre tales, she turned onto her side and looked up at him. He was still staring up at the star patterns.

"Why did you stop?" she asked then smiled when he answered, "The entirety of Greek mythology can't be crammed into one night, Cuddy."

While true, she had a feeling it was more about having more nights like this than educating her.

_Romantic. He may not admit it, but he is that,_ she mused inwardly while humming aloud. His bright blue eyes found hers and her heart fluttered. _Love._ It was a distinct and unmistakable expression on him.

Without a word, she raised up and moved over him. He watched her, his left hand touching her waist lightly, not quite a guide and yet not a caress either.

Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms above his head, eyes locking with his as her hair curtained forward around them. His hands found her back and held her gently.

"I love you," she whispered, then softer still, "I'm _in love _with you."

His gaze flickered and she kissed him, slowly, breathily, gently capturing his top lip, then the bottom. A familiar, coveted, quivering weightlessness spread through her when he kissed her in kind. She felt so many things.

With a soft murmur of his name, she raised over him and stripped off her t-shirt. She unfastened her bra and he took it from her, guiding the garment down along her arms then tossing it aside.

The way he looked … she felt infinitely sexy, very much like a woman. She relished feeling those things. They were a gift.

His gaze followed the path of her hands when she ran them down over her chest, and remained on her when she got to her feet and slipped off her yoga pants and panties.

Standing above him bare and bathed in firelight, her body warmed exponentially and desire coiled low in her belly. She trembled when his right hand touched her calf, cupped the curve and caressed. His eyes fixed on her sex for a moment then found hers again, when he held his hands out to her, palms up. A thready breath escaped her when she took hold of one of them and let him brace her as she lowered to her knees beside him.

With practiced ease, she worked his pajamas down to his ankles and off. She loved finding he'd forgone underwear, and reached for his growing erection without hesitation.

He grunted at the contact then rasped her name when she bowed and sucked him into her mouth. She lingered for a while, lips and tongue working him to full hardness, enjoying him as much as he was enjoying her attentions.

It was the least she could do for him after what he'd done for her today. The very least. And yet she knew, for him, making love expressed more than any words she could say.

When he slipped a hand beneath her hair and pressed gently, she moved up his body, her hand pushing his t-shirt out of the way so she could trail soft kisses along the way.

She sought out and tongued each of his nipples when she found them. She sought his mouth when he coaxed her upward again. She lost herself in the softness and heat of his kiss. And it was his kiss now, to her, fueling her desire for him.

She told him so, lips slipping away to whisper that she wanted him inside her. His eyes opened when she sat up and eased her hand between them. She grasped him firmly but delicately, her fingers curling around his length and guiding him to where she wanted him.

His hands found her hips when she began lowering, guiding her down and down until he was fully seated inside her. She swallowed and let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"Feel good?" he asked, almost breathless.

She drank in the sight of him beneath her.

"You _always_ feel good."


	91. Chapter 91

**Part 91**

He was seduced.

By languid kisses and bold touches.

By emotions that he expressed and heard expressed in rasping breaths and soft moans.

By her. Completely by her.

Her legs locked around his waist, she undulated in his lap, trying to work him deeper. He helped her, hands spanning her ass and managing her pace. Slow and even, infinitely erotic.

It was intrinsically beautiful, perfect sex and he loved it. He adored her as he guided her to just the right angle to make her feel even more.

She arched in pleasure and he braced her with his arm. He gloried in her trust as she reveled in the sensations.

He watched her dance in his lap and felt some part of him ignite when she suddenly opened her eyes and met his gaze, blue-gray eyes blazing with passion. He loved the fine lines of her face and welcomed her touch to his own. He trembled as her fingertips grazed the ever-graying stubble along his jaw.

Turning his head, he kissed her palm, then the soft skin of her inner wrist as she eased her arm around his neck. The one he brushed in the bend of her elbow made her tremble. The one he bestowed on the aching nipple of her left breast prompted her to curl her arm around his head and hold him close.

He shut his eyes and devoured her, moving from one breast to the other then back again. His hand, spread across the center of her back, held her to him when he abandoned the soft mounds for her neck. He buried his face there, bestowing wet, lingering kisses to her skin.

She tilted her head back when his lips found the suprasternal notch, the sensitive dip at the base of her throat. He gently tongued the indentation before ghosting his breath along the line of her throat. She tipped her head forward when his mouth closed in on hers. Their lips melded perfectly.

For a moment, when he delved his hand into her hair and cradled her closer, he wondered if he'd ever really made love like quite this with anyone else. If he had, he couldn't remember and didn't care to. The past was the past, she was the here and now and he was drowning in her.

He moaned when she sent a hand down his back and pulled herself closer to him, bearing down on his erection as she did. It was if she was trying to get more of him in her than was physically possible and the thought she wanted him that much did things to him.

Wresting his mouth from hers, he groaned her name and repeated it when she squeezed him within, working the inner muscles of her sex around his.

Then, between them, she gasped a request that his body rushed to obey.

"Come in me," she panted the three words between them. They were so simple and yet terribly erotic, possessing the power to tip the biological scale and send him into orgasm. And they did.

He closed his eyes as pleasure spread outward from his groin, up along his spine. He felt his semen leaving his body, rushing through the length of his penis to fill her.

Damn, he loved that, and the thought of it nearly had him coming again. If he'd been younger, he probably would have. If he'd been younger, he wouldn't have even been able to think about the possibility. He cursed his brain for being able to form even a wisp of thought when he was in the middle of orgasming in the woman he loved.

_Love._

Yes, that's what he felt as she rode him to her own end. He helped, his hand meeting up with hers as it sought out her sex. He caressed her, swirling his fingers through her soaked curls then slipping them down to caress the soft folds while she rubbed her clitoris.

She came like that and he watched her. The sight of her head tilting back and her mouth falling open was astoundingly erotic and stunningly beautiful. He would never grow tired of seeing her that way, of hearing that rush of breath followed by a throaty gasp that sometimes held his name.

He drew her trembling body back to his own. He buried his face in her neck and kissed her sweat-slick skin again. He ignored the sharp, bitter taste of her perfume and breathed in her scent while he sucked a spot red, marking her as his. And she let him, to his delight.

_She'll have to wear something with a high neckline tomorrow_, he mused.

She eventually drew him back from her, a hand touching his cheek. He looked up to see her smiling and looking throughly bedded. It was a look that suited her immensely. He felt a not-so-small swell of pride in knowing that he'd had a hand, literally, in doing that to her.

He'd wanted her for so long that being with her sometimes felt like a dream. He sometimes feared it was, expecting to wake at any moment to find himself alone in bed, with only his hand and a fantasy of her to relieve the ache in his groin. It had never eased the other ache, the one that he'd refused to admit existed until _that_ night.

Reflexively, his eyes sought out the hallway where they'd kissed. The memory of her need…

He'd questioned the reality of that night at Mayfield. In the clutches of withdrawal, he'd been consumed with fear that it had all been a Vicodin-fueled hallucination. That he hadn't come to her door and kissed her. That she hadn't asked him to stay.

For a moment, just now, he felt a twinge of that fear but her caress to his jaw drew his attention back to her. Then she kissed him again and he focused on her taste and the feel of her in his arms, of her sex, hot and slick, still trying to hold onto his as it softened.

He was reminded him again a bit later of the reality of her when they stood under the spray of her shower. She thanked him again for paying the damned bill that had upset her.

She wasn't able to hide the sadness that underlay her gratitude. He didn't think she even tried to hide it any more, at least not from him. Or maybe he was just seeing her more clearly.

He told her he loved her once they slid beneath the covers of her bed. He spooned her despite knowing they would eventually drift apart in sleep, each staking claim to their respective sides of the bed. He liked that he had a side.

"What?"

The whisper in the darkness made him realize he was smiling. With his cheek pressed against her shoulder, she'd felt it.

He didn't tell her the truth, but he didn't lie either when he whispered, "I love your huge ass."

She snorted. "It's not that big."

No, it wasn't, but the size was definitely accentuated by her narrow waist. And then there were the girls.

His hand found her hip and caressed gently before he gripped her and snuggled closer, fitting said derrière comfortably against his groin.

"Just big enough," he countered and she laughed low in her throat.

His dick liked that sound. So did the rest of him. He wiggled just a big closer and enjoyed the sensations it produced.

"Have you _always_ been this horny?" she asked.

"You bring it out in me," he declared, bringing his mouth next to her ear.

She snorted. "Don't you mean _up_?"

"Up _and_ out," he smirked.

That netted a giggle from the woman in his arms. He was glad to hear it, knowing her mood could have been the polar opposite. After a moment, she sighed slowly and relaxed back against him. He eased his arm around her and secured her close.

"I'm really glad you're back," she said softly and his heart did a thing.

Shutting his eyes, he kissed her shoulder with a murmured, "Me, too."

He was very glad to be back. Mayfield had been necessary for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which was his desire to be where he was now and able to experience her and what he felt with her without feeling the constant pull to white pills in an amber bottle.

Resting his head on the pillow — the edge of hers — he took a slow breath and told her he loved her. He heard her say the words back before he fell asleep but his last conscious memory was of her hand covering his and fingertips caressing his knuckles.

It was a gentle and blessedly familiar touch. He dreamed of it and his heart trembled when it woke him in the early morning hours, accompanied by a request to make love.

"Yeah," he whispered and was seduced again.


	92. Chapter 92

**Part 92**

His muscles were burning.

His lungs were burning.

His eyes were burning. And stinging.

Holding the dumbbells over his head, elbows locked, his extended arms quivered. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. His clothing was sticking to his body. The weight bench was unforgiving against his back.

_I should never have quit this._

Running he'd stopped out of necessity but this, keeping in general shape, that he'd stopped out of bitterness. Amongst other reasons, most of them self-destructive.

He was trying not to be that anymore. He was trying to be better in all respects, which had prompted him to not just stop abusing his body, but take care of it. Which was why he was at the gym. That and he'd grown bored sitting alone at Cuddy's place.

Just like every day the last week, he had slept in after seeing her off to work but then had nothing else to do. Music had placated him for a while. He'd started reading a book but hadn't been able to get into it enough to pass the time, which frustrated him, which negated the chance of taking a nap without expending some energy. He had been on the verge of pacing when he'd spotted the small hand-weights sitting next to Cuddy's yoga mat. They were too small for him but the gym had what he needed. So he'd called a cab, gone to his place, and picked up workout clothes.

He'd almost reconsidered his plan when he'd entered the gym and seen all the young fit bodies around — especially the men whose muscles had muscles. There were some fairly hot women, but when it came to that sort of thing he preferred _specific_ scenery.

Along with the chance of public embarrassment, that predilection was a part of his hesitation.

Confronted with both, he'd considered ditching his exercise plan in favor of seeing her, maybe eat lunch in the cafeteria or somewhere near the hospital. _Or bang her brains out over her office desk._ But he'd quickly quashed either notion since they were still hiding from Wilson and everyone else who knew them.

Despite understanding and agreeing with that course of action, he was growing weary of the subterfuge, which was change of pace for him. He was a master at instigating intrigue, usually juggling two or three schemes at a time, waiting patiently to see which would pay off first. But in this situation, other than avoiding his best friend's guaranteed over-involvement, he didn't see a substantial payoff in continuing to hide, not with how things had developed. He believed they were close enough, strong enough to survive going public, the stares and expected rumors. Frankly, he didn't care who knew but he knew she had more at stake in that area — women always did, even if they weren't their lover's boss. He was okay with most people thinking he was sexist and misogynistic, but he didn't like the unequal standard.

Taking a slow, if unsteady breath, he gradually lowered his arms out to his sides, the weights stretching his long-neglected biceps and triceps. He was going to be sore later but he found himself smiling at the thought.

Cuddy wouldn't be able to resist giving him a rubdown. She'd be surprised but happy to know he was resuming some sort of physical exercise.

She'd nagged him for the first few years after the infarction about having quit physical therapy and, in recent weeks, she'd been trying to get him to do yoga with her. The latter he'd refused with a measure of spite. The yoga he'd always declined, preferring to watch her. She was sexy and beautiful … _and flexible_.

His carnal mind always entertained _ideas_ when he watched her stretch and bend. A few times they'd have sex after she was all limbered up and that was a hell of an experience.

He didn't dare conjure any specific experiential memories or fantasies now, though, fearing the distraction would result in his injuring himself. He wasn't lifting a lot but enough to pull a muscle or dent his skull, if he lost his grip on the weights. So he concentrated on the inner workings of his body, calculated every move of his hands and arms.

He did inventory on the muscles his movements engaged, even those of his back and legs. The ones around the scar in his thigh, which was hidden by the length of his shorts, stretched, too, in certain positions. He avoided those as much as possible but engaged almost every other part of his body to some degree. It wasn't exactly comfortable but it wasn't uncomfortable either. The exertion actually felt good — not sex good, but good — thanks to the release of endorphins.

The feeling didn't wane until he exited the taxi at Cuddy's place.

His entire body protested every centimeter he moved to open the car door then hoist himself out onto the curb. And then every stride he took to reach the porch. He winced his way up the two steps under the eve, his wounded thigh an welcome part of the chorus now. His arms announced their blatant hatred of him when put the key in the lock and gave it a turn.

He grunts his way inside and tossed his keys atop the narrow table in the entryway. He dropped his bag in the floor by the wooden console then he did something he hadn't done in weeks:

He reached into his jacket pocket for an amber bottle with a label that might or might not have his name on it.

He froze, panic rushing through him when he realized what he'd done. He could taste the adrenaline — or maybe the ghost of Vicodin?

_No, adrenaline. Metallic, not sour._

Pulling his empty hand from his jacket, he swallowed convulsively and flexed his fingers, closing them in a fist then opening. He looked at them, though not sure why. He also wasn't sure what he was supposed to do.

Reflexively, again, he reached into a pocket, his jeans this time, looking for his mobile phone. He was poised to call Cuddy, or maybe Nolan, but decided against it after he took a deliberate breath. He was a big boy and had to learn to deal with this thing on his own — she couldn't always be with him and his psychiatrist wouldn't always be available — because it wouldn't be the last time he was confronted with his addiction. His demon, pharmaceutical friend-turned-enemy, would destroy him if he let it.

_If I let it._

He didn't want that and resolved to get himself under control and follow the universally prescribed treatment for non-addicts coping with sore and aching muscles: ibuprofen and a hot bath.

Leaving his phone in his pocket, he took a steady breath and concentrated on doing normal things, at a normal pace, starting with taking off his jacket. He worked it off despite his body's protest and hung it on one of the designated pegs near the door. He then locked said door and hobbled his way down the hall. He leaned more heavily on his cane than he had in weeks.

In Cuddy's room, he stripped down, the activity alleviating some of the stiffness but doing nothing to ease the soreness. That he expected to take days to taper despite meds and hot water. The muscle fatigue would fade quicker but not in the immediate future. His limbs felt like he was swaying, his limbs lead pendulums, as he journeyed to the tub. His elbows threaten to buckle as he lowered himself in, arms trembling with the effort, like at the gym.

The ibuprofen, which he'd taken while filling the tub, kicked in about the time the water began to cool, so he drained and refilled the tub. He relaxed further, leaning his head back against the tile and letting the heat seep deep into his body.

He was on his way to dozing off when his phone rang. Annoyed, he glanced over the side of the tub and frowned at the name on the screen. _Wilson._

He thought he should probably answer it since he hadn't talked to his friend in days but he didn't want to. So he didn't, letting voicemail fulfill its role in the world while he took a short nap.

Afterward, he felt better, not that he'd expected anything different. His years as an athlete had taught him the value of wet heat. _So had Beth Baker_, he mused, _and Cuddy_. That fiercely intelligent and passionate brunette reminded him on a near-daily basis.

He was hungry for that _particular_ kind by the time she came home but one look at her told him that would have to happen later, or not at all. She looked exhausted, which didn't surprise him since she'd worked three hours over. It was nearly 11.

"Did you eat?" he asked, stepping into the doorway of the dining room. She had already set her work satchel on the long, wooden table and was shrugging off her coat.

"A yogurt," she said while folding and draping the wool garment over the back of one of the chairs.

"That's not food," he protested then announced there was a plate in the refrigerator containing homemade vegetable lasagna.

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You cooked _vegetables_?"

He shrugged, knowing she wasn't really surprised. He had cooked them for her before and, despite being an unapologetic carnivore, he didn't mind _some_ of the stuff she liked.

"I knew you wouldn't eat steak," he said, even though she would eat it, rarely, but not rare.

Smirking to himself, he headed to the kitchen. His cane made the usual sound as it contacted the floor in tandem with his right foot. His hip hurt but he confessed that was more from not using the damned cane the correct way for more than a decade than from his workout efforts. Other than that pain, he did feel better than earlier, if tired.

He heard her following him, her footsteps quieter than his own, which meant she'd abandoned the heels by the dining table, just like she always did when she was tired. He knew she'd get them before bed or in the morning and he liked that he knew that.

"You didn't have to cook," she said as his feet moved from wood to tile. It was colder but he didn't care. He supposed the ordinary domestic mood of the moment had something to do with his non-caring and he'd ceased feeling _Wilsonish_ when he indulged in such moments. Mostly.

"You don't eat enough," he countered then opened the fridge and pulled out the plate. The serving was small despite his declaration. He knew she wouldn't eat much this late at night.

As he put the plate in the microwave, she came up behind him, her hands curling around his upper arms. She brought her body close to his and he wondered at her thoughts when she turned her head and pressed her ear to his back. She shared them after a moment, still far more forthcoming than he when it came to sharing feelings.

"I'm tired," she said then moved her arms down and slipped them around him. "I missed you today," she sighed softly as her hands found his chest.

He had missed her, too. More than sexually, despite the bodily evidence to the contrary — namely his rapidly hardening penis — which had responded gleefully at the feel of her breasts against his back. Not one to complain about _that_, he shut his eyes and basked in the nearness with her and the happiness in his pajamas, only to silently curse moments later, when the cycle-ending beep of the microwave sounded close to his ear. He thought he might have been able to stand there forever with her until that then.

Apparently taking that as a cue, she eased away from him, albeit slowly, leaving him to extract her nuked meal from the contraption of convenience. He turned to find her taking a seat at the dining table, in the dark. There was enough light spillage from the hall to eat by, so he didn't switch on the overhead lamp when he set the plate and a fork in front of her.

He heard the utensil contact the stoneware while he returned to the kitchen to get her something to drink. He thought water first but then went for wine, which prompted a but sacrilegious thought that lingered as he poured the red liquid into a long-stemmed glass. There was something erotic about the way the first splash swept smoothly up, like a wave, caressing the curve of the bowl before settling into a puddle of gentle ripples before stilling.

That's how it was later, in bed, as he brought her to climax with his mouth and hands. He watched the gentle rise of her desire, the sweeping crest, the ripples of pleasure, then contented stillness.

He came up after, kissed her, and told her to sleep. But she was contrary and asked him what he'd done during the day.

He told her and that he might have overdone it and she smiled. Then looked concerned when he suddenly frowned, the expression prompted by thoughts of the phantom Vicodin, what could have been an accidental relapse. Accidental because he hadn't wanted them, specifically, but he might have taken them out of habit if there'd been a bottle in his pocket.

As her fingers gently stroked his cheek, he wasn't sure he should tell her that part. Her gaze was soft but conveyed a very familiar, worried curiosity. He wanted to allay her concerns and told her what he had done as treatment instead.

Her smile returned but he saw that she knew what he hadn't said. She understood him well and didn't press, letting him have his prevarication, for now. He loved her for that, in ways he was still learning to comprehend. No one had ever treated him the way she did.

He trembled as her fingers eased around to the back of his head and caressed gently. After a moment, she applied the slightest pressure and he happily returned to her mouth, kissing her soft and slow. He moaned softly when her free hand found his penis between them and caressed.

"I'm good," he whispered against her mouth, knowing she was tired. That they both were. And although he wanted her, his erection predictably hardening again, he wouldn't ask for more because she usually didn't rest enough either.

But then she replied with two words guaranteeing he'd summon enough energy to give her what she wanted. What they both wanted. What she seemed to need, even more than him.

"I'm not," she whispered.

Unquestioning, he eased her under him and made love to her in the dark.


	93. Chapter 93

**Part 93**

Three more days of boredom, survived by lifting weights and silently diagnosing the life expectancies of some of the less-fit gym members, and he decided things needed to change. He needed to get back to work, to his medical puzzles, but he wanted something first and he told her as she was getting ready for her workday.

"Take next week off."

Behind her, he kissed her bare shoulder, lips brushing the skin next to the white strap of her bra. She paused in applying her mascara and met his gaze in the mirror. Her blue-gray eyes held a hint of surprise.

"It's Thanksgiving," she said, as if that should mean something to him. It didn't. He didn't care about the holiday or anything associated with it beyond being thankful for her, sometimes Wilson.

"Did you have plans?" he asked, holding her gaze.

"My sister usually invites me last minute, but I always decline because I work."

He wondered why her sister waited until last minute to invite her, but not work. For as long as he'd worked for her, she'd worked holidays so others of her staff could take off. But he didn't want her to do that next week, not if he would be returning to work after.

Bowing, he kissed her shoulder again and lingered, voicing his request once more.

"Why?"

Curiosity colored the word, not suspicion. There was a time when it would have been the other, and only the other.

"Let's go somewhere," he said then began a trail of kisses toward her neck. He smiled when she tilted her head and swung her hair forward, exposing more of her skin. He took the invitation and eased a hand around to cup one of her breasts. They hadn't had sex yesterday or this morning — _a veritable drought_ — so he was happy to seduce her now, especially if she'd agree to what he wanted.

"Where?"

She sounded a bit breathless. _Good._

"A beach. A cruise. London. Paris. Venice. Wherever. You pick. I don't care," he said then raised his head.

She'd anticipated his next move, her head already falling back to his shoulder then turning and tilting her chin up.

"Anywhere I can kiss you in public without worrying who might see," he said before melding his mouth to hers.

The hum she let out said she liked the idea but she pulled her lips from his with a resigned sigh.

"It's not that easy for me to take off, House."

He'd known her devotion to the hospital would be stirred at the suggestion. She was looking in the mirror again and he met her eyes there. He noted the mascara had been applied to only the lashes above her right eye, making her look slightly _uneven_. He found it interesting to see her halfway through her morning rituals.

"Living more, Cuddy. It's important," he said, knowing it would irritate her that he sounded like the more committed one in their relationship.

"I know," she said, predicted frustration rising. "But it'd be next to impossible to arrange for it now, not with everyone else having already made plans for the holiday."

"Wilson hasn't." He didn't know if that was true or not, but he was more than willing to manipulate his friend into it if necessary. He wanted this with her.

"He's visiting his parents," she said in response.

He sighed inwardly, wishing he'd known instead of making the gambit. Any other holiday, he was fairly certain Wilson would either be with some blonde or redhead he'd met a week before, hoping for a super special reason to be thankful. Or he'd have been at House's place, drinking beer and watching football. But he hadn't spoken to Wilson in days. Last they'd talked, he'd told his friend he was going to visit his mother before coming back to work. He told Cuddy something else, now, honestly.

"I'm coming back to work."

He watched her brow furrow, which he'd expected. He had yet to mention to her that he'd been thinking about it the last few days. He suspected she thought he'd just shifted gears for effect. But he hadn't, not entirely. He just wanted her to understand why taking next week was important.

"When?" she asked.

"After Thanksgiving."

Her eyes held his reflection, worry beginning to make an appearance. "You haven't said anything."

It wasn't a question or an accusation but he feared there was a trace of both in the words, somewhere. Or maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe she was.

"I haven't been keeping secrets, Cuddy," he said in response. "I just wasn't sure of when until last night."

She blinked. "Are you unhappy?"

The question took him aback. His returning to work had been inevitable at some point and she knew it. It unnerved him that she'd jumped from a relevant conversation onto a rogue, unfounded train of thought. He wanted her off it.

"Nope," he said honestly and would go so far as to admit he was blissfully happy — when he was with her. It was the hours apart from her, when he lacked adequate distractions for his mind, that were becoming unbearable.

"I'm bored," he told her. "I need to do something during the day other than count the hours until you're home."

She seemed to understand but said softly, "It's just … sudden."

_Not that sudden_, he thought. He'd been out of rehab nearly three weeks. If he went back after Thanksgiving, then that'd be almost a month of post-rehab rehab. If she were only his boss, she would have been asking him about his return. But she wasn't just his boss and he admittedly kept her pretty occupied when she wasn't at work.

"I'm ready," he said then dropped a bombshell, one he knew she wasn't expecting. "And I'm tired of hiding."

In the mirror, her features fell and her gaze darted away from his. He felt a ripple of worry that she'd shut him out so quickly, without a word, but he knew he had taken her by surprise, twice, in the last few minutes. He figured she deserved a chance to regroup and he needed to not work himself up before she was ready to share her thoughts. He wasn't looking for conflict but, oddly enough, to talk_,_ about where they were and where they were going.

Both were things he'd implicitly avoided for years. He usually provoked and shut people out but here he was, waiting for the chance to actually communicate, openly, with the woman he loved.

So, instead of chasing the white rabbit of fear, he kept his attention on her, watched as she quietly regrouped by falling back on her morning routine.

He stayed close but held his tongue while she finished putting on the mascara. He continued to hold it while she capped the vial and set it on the counter. And even when she slowly turned to face him.


	94. Chapter 94

**Part 94**

She hadn't expected they would hide forever or that he'd want to spend the rest of his life sequestered in her home as houseboy and love slave, as he'd jokingly called himself last week. But she also hadn't expected him to be the first of them to reach this point.

She searched his blue eyes, seeking a sign of _something_, wondering what she'd missed that had him wanting to out them to their colleagues, her subordinates, and his best friend. But she saw only _him_, just him, the man she'd spent the last weeks and months of her life openly loving, at least in private. The man who'd moments ago answered her asinine question about happiness and who hadn't run from the room when she hadn't immediately responded to his revelation. She took some heart in the latter especially but wished that eased her worry over what he was proposing.

"You know what it will mean for us," she stated the obvious.

He returned the favor. "You know we can't avoid it forever."

She held his gaze and tested the waters. "Don't you think we should make that decision together?"

"I haven't made any decision about it," he replied. "I'm just telling you … _what I feel_."

With his confession, vulnerability emerged in the bright blue of his eyes. Sharing his emotions didn't come naturally to him, but he was getting better. She'd seen plenty evidence of his trying for months. And he was trying now, even though he remained half an arm's length away after moving back for her to turn.

The separation suddenly made _her_ feel vulnerable, especially with the emotional nature of the conversation. Especially on this subject.

"And if I'm not ready to take that step?" she asked, feeling the need to know if she was out on the limb alone, and how far. Or maybe how close she was to the trunk of the proverbial tree while he had moved out onto the limb for a swan dive.

"I don't plan on making any announcements, Cuddy," he said with a hint of annoyance. "I'm not trying to force you into anything."

She didn't think he would but he had a history of salaciously admiring and drawing attention to her clothing choices and physical assets in front of hospital staff, patients, and donors, not to mention anyone else within earshot. She didn't know if that would continue when he returned to work or if he would corral the urge and save it for off-the-clock.

Of course, if he did keep it up, no one would probably be the wiser about the truth. Years of blatant lies and juvenile, over-the-top histrionics had conditioned people to ignore most of what he said — unless it got pointedly personal or dangerous.

He was different than he used to be, though, at least when he was with her, making how he would behave at work in the future an unknown. But there was one thing she knew for certain: He wouldn't force her into anything.

As lover, he had the power to seduce her. In every other capacity, he could sway her with logic, reason, or the right argument. He had guilted her on more than one occasion and called her on a bluff a time or two, but he had never _forced_ her to do anything. Ever.

Trouble was, he wouldn't have to force anything in this situation. Whether he continued to be an egregious ass or not, people would pick up on the difference eventually. In him, if nothing else.

With his having been gone for weeks, the rumor mill would swing into action the instant he set foot back in the hospital. There had undoubtedly been some speculation about his absence and his clean-and-sober return would only add grist. Everyone would be on high-alert, watching his every move, which was what worried her most. Because they were already watching her, had never stopped actually.

She hadn't told him that. _Just like he hadn't shared his thoughts on returning to work with me_, she thought and suddenly felt every bit the hypocrite for having been bothered by his silence on that subject. The only way to balance those scales was to come clean on her _secret_. So she did.

"I'm still getting the looks," she said softly and watched his features soften into a mask of compassion. The expression, still such a strange one to see on him, took her breath away. It always did. It always made her fall in love with him all over again. If he noticed her swooning heart, he didn't say but he did echo her words from moments ago.

"You haven't said anything."

She looked down at her bare toes on the soft rug in front of the sink. She needed to repaint her nails.

"I haven't wanted to think about it when I'm not there," she sighed then looked up at him. "But they are acting as if I'll have some sort of breakdown if I treat a pregnant patient or anyone under the age of five. They are just being considerate, but it's been months and I'm tired of being treated like a grieving, almost-was mother."

The last word came out breathy as emotions flooded her. Her eyes misted and a lump formed in her throat. She knew it was perfectly understandable that she still had feelings about her loss. Her grief over Joy wasn't going to end just because time had passed or because she'd found herself in a real and loving relationship. Those things helped but she had come _so_ close to being a mother that sometimes the mere thought of the little girl still hurt deeply.

Now was one of those times and House, bless him, responded. He moved back to her, to where she could lean her head against his chest. He eased his hands up to cradle her elbows when she took the comfort he offered. She breathed him in, relished his warmth and the gift of his nearness. She found a measure of composure shortly, enough to speak again.

"I want them to stop, House. I want _it_ to stop," she said then added on a bitter half-laugh, "I'm not making a very good case for myself, am I?"

He propped his chin atop her head. "You don't need to make a case to anybody, Cuddy. If you want to do all of your job, then do it. You're the boss."

He was right, of course. Which meant that her staff was at least partly right.

"Like my being boss ever worked with you," she snorted, following his line of conversation instead of her own. It was bound to be less maudlin, he was good that way.

"They're not me."

His response held just the right — and expected — amount of arrogance and she felt a flash of amusement.

"No. They actually listen," she replied.

"They obey," he contradicted and she could practically hear his smirk, prompting her to look uno at him.

He _was_ smirking, then his eyes wandered from hers as his fingers skimmed along her arms, up to touch the straps of her bra in tandem.

"I think you should ditch the white and wear that black number in the fun box drawer."

The black number was a lace and satin teddy that left little to the imagination. She'd bought it for a reason she could not remember but had never worn it except to try it on for fit and then wash it. She probably should have worn it for him by now — _he'd love it, clearly_ — but clothing was optional when she was home and once she was undressed…

Well, it had never occurred to her to put anything back on.

"That's entirely inappropriate for work," she said, thankful for him and his libidinous nature. She was convinced he could make any conversation about sex, or turn it into a seduction. And turn the tide of her emotions.

_Definitely not maudlin_, she mused as he responded.

"I think it's perfectly appropriate for a woman who wants to drive home how powerful she is." He slipped his fingertips under the straps. "It just screams 'I'm in charge'."

She snorted even as she watched desire flicker to life in his gaze.

"How does that help if no one else can see it?" she asked.

"You'd know you have it on," he replied then added, "And I'll know. Which means Little Greg is going to be _enormously_ happy the rest of the day and I'll be your wild stallion ready for a ride by the time you get home."

He said all that while guiding the straps from her shoulders until they were resting at the bends of her elbows, virtually exposing her breasts. Her nipples were stiff and just barely covered. The thick seams of the cups rubbed against them every time she took a breath.

"It would be an event if you _weren't_ ready for a ride," she said, her voice breathy with the desire he was stirring in her.

"Wear it," he encouraged but she shook her head.

Much as she wanted to put it on — and to fall back into bed with him for a round of loving, emotionally therapeutic morning sex — she was on the verge of running late. Their unexpected conversation was eating away the time at the time she had to get ready. But she made a concession.

"I will. For you," she said and watched his eyes flare brighter, "But later."

He pouted then, scowling and pushing his bottom lip out. She might have rolled her eyes if she weren't busy adoring him at the moment.

"I don't have time to change," she needlessly explained as she moved her hands up to his shoulders, the material of his t-shirt soft under her fingers and warm with his heat. "But I do appreciate the thought," she said then pushed up on her toes and shared a soft kiss with him.

When she lowered, he declared his affection for her in that way that always made her insides flutter. _Absolute clarity and certainty._

"I love you," she whispered back with a smile, adding, "We'll talk about the other tonight?"

He gave a little nod before bowing and kissing her again, slow and breathy this time, leaving her wanting even more.

_If I had the time_, she thought as he drew away, leaving her to finish getting ready.

She watched him go, her gaze raking over him head to toe. She silently vowed to make it up to him tonight.


	95. Chapter 95

**Part 95**

She heard them whispering amongst each another. She saw charts surreptitiously handed over the clinic admit desk and hidden, then given to other doctors once they were available.

Infants, pregnant women, toddlers.

Every single one of them diverted around her and she was getting damned tired of it. She'd told House just this morning that she wanted it to stop and he'd effectively told her it was within her power to make it, if that's what she wanted.

_You're the boss, _he'd said.

The memory of those words resonated with her now, as a fretting child in the waiting room start to cry in earnest. It was the distinct thick, constricted wail of an infant only days or possibly a couple weeks old. She was undeniably affected by the sound, felt a sense of loss but also something else.

That something else galvanized her into action, prompting her to turn as the cries grew nearer to the desk. She made eye contact with a clearly dismayed, extremely young woman who had the fussy baby cradled in one arm, a carrier hooked over the other, and a death grip on a clipboard with hopefully completed paperwork.

Before the staff could react, Cuddy moved to intercept _her_ next patient, taking the clipboard and carrier and introducing herself before quickly ushering the woman into the just-vacated exam room.

Technically, she should have waited and made sure the woman was next — she probably wasn't — but a crying baby in a waiting room full of already put-out people amped up the stress for everyone. That's why she told herself she was doing everyone a favor. True or not.

A degree of relief descended over her once the door was shut and she was out of sight of the overprotective staff. She didn't need or want an audience for this exam, which is why she did all the tasks nurses usually did before handing a patient over to the physician.

Admittedly, it was like a lance to the heart when she gently took the baby from the mother's arms and for a moment, she thought she might change her mind.

But she didn't.

No, she sucked it up and went to work, weighing the little girl, measuring her length, taking her temperature, then listening to her heart and lungs. She didn't have an official chart, an idiot move in the medical world, but she used the back of the preliminary paperwork to note vitals, the baby's age, and the chief complain: a rash in the genital region.

Considering the mother's age and frantic state, the isolation of the rash to the area generally covered by a diaper, and lack of any other symptoms, Cuddy suspected a first time mom and run-of-the-mill irritant dermatitis, aka diaper rash.

She needed to do a visual examination though, and had the mother place her hand gently on the child's chest, as Cuddy had been doing, to keep the little one from moving too much.

She sought confirmation of one part of her diagnosis as she removed the diaper. "She your first?"

"Yes," the woman replied. "I saw the rash this morning and she was so uncomfortable, I decided to bring her here."

Seeing the rash, and that it was what she'd suspected, Cuddy glanced up at the mother. "I think I'd be cranky, too," she said then donned a consoling smile, "But it's nothing to worry about. Just a nasty case of diaper rash."

"Oh, thank God."

Looking visibly relieved, the woman bent down and kissed her baby on the forehead. That gesture was almost Cuddy's undoing but she held it together somehow and watched the woman run the fingers of her free hand through her hair.

Where the woman had looked frazzled before, she now looked drained. Cuddy wondered when she last had more than a couple hours of sleep at a time. She wondered if she had any help. So she asked and the answer tore at her heart.

"My mother… she was killed in a car crash," the young woman said, her voice wavering and eyes suddenly glassy. "She was coming to help."

_Oh God. _The woman's pain was nearly overwhelming. It virtually filled the room.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Cuddy said, the platitude desperately sincere.

The woman nodded and wiped at an escaped tear.

"She would have known what to do about this." The woman looked back down at her baby, Erin, and frowning miserably. "I don't know what I'm doing. I didn't think I was going to be doing this alone."

Every trace of Cuddy's personal pain took a backseat to what she felt for the devastated human being in front of her. She resisted the urge to hug the woman and immediately began making a mental list of available programs at the hospital and in the community, things that a new mother might be able to take advantage of.

Unsure of the financial situation, Cuddy didn't know exactly how much help the woman might qualify for but she could provide the information. As for the rest, all she could do was wish she could do more. But some things were beyond her ability — like resurrecting the dead. That was something even House, for all his unique medical acumen and gifts, couldn't do.

Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, Cuddy pulled out a notepad and wrote the names of several diaper creams available over-the-counter for future use. Then she wrote a prescription for the hospital pharmacy to fill now.

Rising, she opened the exam room door and motioned over one of the group of nurses who were gathered at the desk and now staring at her. She resisted the urge to glare or roll her eyes and instead handed off the prescription to the first nurse who approached, giving instructions to fill it.

Nurse Jeffries stepped up then and offered her the official chart for the patient, giving Cuddy a sympathetic look as she did. Cuddy ignored it but couldn't help wondering what she must look like to have netted it. Or maybe she was being paranoid and it was par for the course.

Either way, Cuddy thanked the nurse, took the chart, and retreated back into the exam room to finish caring for her patient.

Wilson heard, of course, and found her in her office not long after she'd signed out from the clinic for the day. He was barely inside the door before he asked if she was okay.

"I'm fine," she said from behind her desk when what she really wanted was to scream and toss her pen at his head. She really wished people would stop asking her that, which is what she told him.

He gave her the tiniest lopsided smile and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"We just care," he said and she tried not to smile at how House would have reacted to that. He loved Wilson like a brother but he found his friend's compassion excessive, annoyingly so. Of course, House thought that about her, too, at times.

"I know," she said, summoning a little smile of her own. "But I am capable of doing my job, _all_ of it."

"No one's saying you aren't," Wilson said, moving over and inviting himself to sit. "But with what happened, how it happened—"

"I don't need the reminder or explanations," she cut him off. "I understand and I appreciate it, but it's time for everyone to move past it."

"Have you?"

She sighed, hating that question with a passion, and the way he said it. Not sarcastic, not condescending, not overly compassionate but _something_ that set her teeth on edge.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm unaffected," she said. "But it's getting better. I am moving on. I just want everyone else to let me do that and they can start by not treating me like I'm going to fall apart at the slightest provocation."

Wilson raised his eyebrows when she finished, making her realize she'd raised her voice, not quite shouting but loud enough to reveal how frustrated she'd become.

"Feel better?" he asked.

She offered an apology rather than directly admit that she did feel better but he dismissed it with a little shake of his head.

"You've been holding that in for a while," he remarked.

"Yes," she confessed and told him that she'd kept hoping that it would just go away, that people would get tired of it. But they hadn't.

"Surely you know they follow your lead," he said.

_They obey. _That's how House had put it.

"So I've been reminded," she admitted then set her pen aside and relaxed back in her chair.

She looked appreciatively at the man on the other side of the table. He was a good friend, a better one than she or House deserved. They had been terribly unkind to him in recent months, even if they had legitimate reasons for their choices. Even though it was okay for them to protect what they had.

She sighed inwardly.

_We should tell him first._


	96. Chapter 96

**Part 96**

"If I'd known this was going to be_ girls' night_, I would have let you call Wilson."

She laughed and he vengefully held back the smirk that threatened.

"Feeling emasculated?" she toyed with him, stirring his chest hair with her toes while he tried to uncap the bottle of nail polish she'd tossed at him a couple minutes ago.

He could have tossed it right back to her, of course, and refused to participate in this all-too-girly ritual but that would have denied him the opportunity to complain — and the distinct pleasure of seeing her from bottom to top.

Nearly the entire length of her legs were visible from beneath the hem of his t-shirt, which she'd confiscated after her shower, and when she moved just right, he could see her other glorious bits.

"Little Greg is shrinking as you speak, woman," he groused without an ounce of actual irritation, telling him he was probably heading toward full-on Wilsonization.

_Or not_, he thought, when she pinched his right nipple with her toes. She _would not _do that to Wilson.

He shot her a look and she smirked the smirk he'd been suppressing.

"That help?" she teased and he stuck his tongue out at her in reply.

That made her laugh again. So he retaliated by ducking down and nipping at her ankle. It was as sexy and alluring as the rest of her.

"Behave," he said when the cap finally budged. "You don't want me to spill this all over the bed."

"You'd better not," she chided.

"Don't plan on it," he replied then frowned when he got his first whiff of the solvents that keep the colored enamel from drying in the bottle. It was unpleasant to say the least but he ignored it and deftly extracted the brush and used the rim of the bottle to lathe the excess from the bristles.

She had positioned her foot to give him the perfect angle to work, and he was struck with the thought of her as a budding teen at slumber parties with her hair in some state of styling flux, wearing pajamas, laughing, listening to pop music or watching slasher flicks … _and painting nails_.

It was interesting imagery, somewhat endearing, but not nearly as compelling as the reality of her now at middle age, a confident, vibrant, sensual woman with unrivaled influence over him.

_Which is probably why I'm painting her toenails instead of banging her brains out_, he postulated.

But then again, that had already happened once this evening. Spectacularly and on the hood of her car no less.

She'd surprised him by coming home early. Curious and a little concerned, he'd met her in the garage as she pulled in. But those two emotions took a backseat when she got out of the car, kissed him, then unbelted her overcoat and let it fall open.

_"Fuck me." _

The words were the only ones his brain had been able to conjure when he saw that she wore that little black number he'd teased her about just that morning. She'd told him she didn't have time to put it on before work and he hadn't pushed. But she'd apparently taken the time to get it out of the drawer while he'd fixed her coffee.

He hadn't been able to get her out of the coat fast enough, wanting to see it on her. What little of it there was.

He'd kissed her then, and touched her. He'd pinned her against the car with his body, but remained conscious of his size in comparison to hers as he stole her breath, and enthusiastically palmed her breasts. He'd pinched her nipples and put a hand between her legs to find her already wet for him, the slick fabric slicker with her.

It had been an easy thing picking her up and setting her on the warm hood. She'd immediately laid out across the sleek, obsidian, sloping plane of German design engineering while his dick had attempted the Herculean feat of punching through denim in one go.

Lust was a powerful emotion and she had deliberately provoked it. And it had rebounded from him into her. She'd been wanton, freeing her breasts from the sheer material covering them then grasping and playing with them. He'd damned near come in his jeans like a horny teen when she'd twisted and pulled her nipples. He'd felt like one as he fumbled with the little snaps at the crotch.

The sound of them popping open had been glorious. Almost as glorious as the moans and gasps that had erupted from her when he buried his face between her thighs. He'd devoured her fiercely, hands on her hips, pinning her in place, afraid she would slide out of reach on the slick metal beneath her.

Her hands had fisted in his thinning hair but he hadn't cared if she pulled him bald so long as she let him keep eating her. She'd let him and he had until she'd come so hard she bucked against the clear coat finish. He'd pulled her up then and seized her mouth in deep, wet, hungry kisses. She'd licked his whiskers clean of her cream before he'd helped her down. She'd promptly turned and bent over the hood while he'd freed his erection with a groan of relief. Seconds later, he'd groaned for an entirely different reason, swallowed up by her wet heat.

He hadn't been gentle with her but she'd been an equal participant. It had been hot, hard sex and he'd shouted her name when he'd finally come. He'd damned near collapsed afterward and she'd had to find his cane so he could make it inside.

A lazy bath had followed. Then a light supper. Then this.

He considered himself a happy man as he drew the little brush along her toenails in smooth vertical lines. He dipped it into the bottle from time to time to gather more, moved from one digit to the next. He inspected his work as he went, looking for imperfections while absently evaluating the color.

It was red, neither bright nor dark, but definitely bold. _Like her._

Glancing up, before moving to her right foot, he noted she was watching him though lashes devoid of mascara. And she was touching herself. Her hand was just under the hem of the white t-shirt, moving slowly, as if she was just stirring her fingertips through the neatly groomed hairs of her sex.

"Finish," she said softly.

"Show me," he countered.

She slid her hand up to her lower belly, taking the shirt with it. He swallowed hard. She was wet.

His eyes found hers again, warm with desire and brimming with emotion. And the beginnings of tears.

"Finish," she said again.

He obeyed but didn't rush. He took his time and paid the same attention to detail as before. When he finished, he closed the bottle securely and sat up to place it on the bedside table.

He then sought out her eyes again and spotted a tear sliding down her cheek. She looked incredibly vulnerable, which he had fully expected.

He was cognizant of how profoundly intimate things had become as he went about the mundane beauty ritual for her. He had drifted in the current with her, aware she was still touching herself, but not necessarily with sexual intent. Her breathing had never changed. She had shifted positions only to accommodate him doing the task she'd asked of him.

The entire experience was an indelible reminder that intimacy wasn't always about sex.

No, human sexuality was more complex than that. And between two people, emotionally involved, any span of time could become one of intimacy. Including painting toenails in a quiet, lamp-lit room.

He hadn't had a lot of that in his life, mostly by choice, sort of. He'd never been capable of being still long enough to truly lose himself in it. But he had tonight, with her, and he wasn't ready for it to end.

Looking down, he touched her hand where it lay near his good thigh. He grazed his fingertips across her palm and heard her take a soft breath. His name was on the equally soft exhale, barely audible.

He felt it when she said his name like that, deep inside, in a place he recognized, one that had held only pain for years. But it wasn't pain he felt with her. It was something softer, gentler, warm. As a physician, he thought it something akin to healing.

He hadn't realized the power of it until the Vicodin was out of his system. Not the whole of it at least. But he felt it keenly now, was grateful and inevitably drawn to the source.

Glancing at her, he saw the perfect mate to his longing.

He clasped her hand for a moment then rose and shed his bedclothes while she sat up and removed her own.


	97. Chapter 97

**Part 97**

"I used to be terrified of this."

His confession was a whisper into the curls atop her head. She snuggled closer to him in response, hummed softly.

"It's not easy to open up to someone even if it's something you want," she murmured as she settled. "The reality is different than the unexperienced desire."

"Yeah," he agreed as he stroked his fingers in the little hollow at the base of her spine. She shivered and he liked that he knew she would.

Eyes closed, he nuzzled her, basking in the continued intimacy from earlier, in the aftermath of lovemaking.

The memory of her soft and welcoming under him, of her hands gliding smoothly over his skin, clutching when he found that spot that increased her pleasure, were enough to make him shiver. And make her mold herself even closer to him, as if her proximity would cure all his ills.

He thought maybe it would as more memories surfaced, of gentle, passionate kisses and hushed moans rooted in love more than pleasure. Of freshly painted toenails, curling against his chest when he'd braved kneeling and taking her slow.

He'd watched her as he'd moved in and out of her. And she'd watched him, blue-gray eyes darkened to the color of the rain-laden clouds of a twilight storm. A woman in her most innate form. Powerful, sexy, in love and given over to love. Accepting and giving. Her body and heart open to her lover, to him.

He'd loved filling the space she gave him in both places. He loved that she wanted him there, that she seemed to need him as much as he needed her. She had watched him penetrate her and he'd watched, too, and the sight, simple in mechanics but boldly erotic, had sent him to the edge.

With anyone else, it would have held no meaning. With her, it meant something, maybe everything.

"Cuddy," he'd whispered when he'd helped her ease her legs around him then stretched out atop her, taking the strain off his thigh.

She'd taken his face in her hands and drawn him into soft, breathy kisses. She'd whispered his name in return. She didn't tell him she loved him. That had been self-evident. But he'd told her because words meant something to her.

"I know," she'd said in a rush of breath that came with tears. He'd watched them trickle slowly from her eyes, down along her cheeks as he flexed his body against hers, driving his erection as deep into her as he could manage.

A need to be deeper had danced at the periphery of what thoughts he'd possessed but he was at the end of her and would not hurt her. He never wanted that.

Cradling her face in his hands, he'd kissed her and held her gaze until she closed her eyes and came. She had been devastatingly beautiful in that moment, when she fell into oblivion. She always was, vulnerable, delicate, whole, and wholly his.

The sight had rendered him hers, again, and more. He'd come in her, pulsing deep. He'd gloried in doing so and feeling her unhindered, the soft, slick walls of her sex caressing his length as he filled her with a groan.

He grunted low now, feeling her hand curl around his reviving erection. She just held him and nuzzled the hollow of his throat. That made him harder, but not like earlier. He was tired and thought that was probably why she didn't do more. Then she spoke and he began softening in her grip.

"What do you want to do about Wilson?"

He was instantly irritated, and not about the state of his dick. The question shattered the peace of the moment. Maybe it shouldn't have but it did. He didn't like it and she sensed the change.

"What is it?" she asked after gently caressing him then wrapping her arm around his waist.

He sighed.

"I don't want to talk about Wilson," he told her. "Or any of the other stuff."

"We need to," she said as she kissed his Adam's apple.

The gesture took the edge off his upset but it didn't put him back to where they had been, which triggered frustration.

"We didn't _need to_ right now," he stated unequivocally. "It could have waited."

She drew back from him and he met her glittering gaze in the night shadows.

"You're angry," she observed.

"I'm frustrated," he corrected, although angry might be on the horizon. To head it off, he told her he needed to get up to pee. She hugged him tighter in response, apparently thinking he was deflecting. He supposed he was, kind of, but he really did need to pee. He just hadn't been in a hurry to go before, not until she killed the mood.

"Gotta pee," he said again and she let him go, albeit reluctantly. He knew she was confused about the intensity of his response, but he wasn't, for once.

True contentment had eluded him most of his life and he'd never really let himself inhabit those moments fully, but when he did, abrupt transitions to the outside were as pleasant as an encounter with his father. He hated it.

Untangling himself from his lover, he limped to the bathroom and raised the toilet seat. He made sure his aim was true before he shut his eyes and tried to shake off his ill temperament. He didn't want to take it back to bed with him any more than he wanted to talk about Wilson or his going back to work or dealing with at the idiots that surrounded them at the hospital and elsewhere. He didn't even want to talk about getaway plans.

He wanted to find that place again, with her, and fall asleep in it. But that wasn't what was going to happen, he realized when he heard her get out of bed and leave the bedroom.

"Crap," he muttered as he finished up.

After giving the toilet a flush, he located his pajama pants and a t-shirt. He noted his other shirt was no longer in the floor, meaning she'd re-donned it — or she'd taken it to the laundry. Either was possible but he hoped for the former since that would mean she wasn't entirely pissed at him.

_Or maybe she's not pissed at all_, he thought when he found her in the kitchen, getting milk out of the fridge.

Post-coital munchies weren't really her thing, not if she'd already had a meal, but he didn't complain when she moved to the next cabinet and pulled out a box of _his_ cereal —Cap'n Crunch.

His frustration bled away at the sight of her bare bottom when she bent and opened the cabinet that held her pots and pans. Anticipating her next move, he made his way over to the cabinet and retrieved the canister of oatmeal for her. She looked over and up at him when he set it on the counter.

He saw no anger or even worry in her eyes. What he saw was patience, but not the patronizing sort. He wasn't sure to make of it, having seen it so little in his life, but when her gaze flickered to his mouth, he took the hint and kissed her.

She hummed then set about making her oatmeal, leaving him to his cereal. He waited until she was nearly finished cooking hers before filling his bowl with the golden, peanut-buttery crunchiness. There was absolutely nothing in it good for him but he liked the taste and it was something he hadn't been allowed very often as a kid.

He pushed away thoughts of his childhood when she joined him, bringing empty glasses with her. He poured each of them some milk into the clear tumblers and they ate in relative silence.

He enjoyed it. It wasn't like earlier, but it had its own appeal and it satisfied his need for the peace he was rapidly finding addictive — more addictive than Vicodin. He wondered if that was a good thing, after all he had left behind an addiction to indulge in another.

_Is it an indulgence? _

That was a question for Nolan, he decided, favoring her company over old fears, even if she wanted to talk about all the stuff looming ahead of them. It was infinitely preferable to the other. So preferable that he found himself extending the olive branch.

"Were you able to take next week off?"


End file.
